Of course, this isn’t love. I have to know a person first to know whether I love them or not. But Piper’s demeanor has caught me off guard. She reminds me of how the trees smelled on my taxi ride over here.
The town sits on the edge of a pine forest, which you have to drive through to get here from the Portland airport.
I was born and raised in Long Island, New York. My lungs are used to inhaling nitrogen, sulfur, and other toxic chemicals—especially when I’m on shift putting out fires. But here I can smell the soil—the salt in the sea, devoid of spilled engine crease, unlike the Hudson, which is highly concentrated with it.
And now, I smell her.
As she hands me my Americano to-go, coffee mixes with her floral perfume notes.
Can I add some of that to my coffee?
We lock eyes, her warm hand brushing against mine as she bids me goodbye.
“Are you new here?” she asks.
“Just arrived,” I reply with a rare grin on my face. It heats up my face.
Finally, I’m starting to feel the touch of summer.
“Ah. Then make yourself at home.”
“I’m only here for a short while, on vacation to get away from the city.”
“Then you could use a tour guide,” she says, “so you don’t miss anything, seeing as your time here is limited.”
I take out my phone again. “Here.” I pass her the device and prompt her to type in her phone number. “I’ll call you.”
“Great.” The blush returns to her ears, bringing out a spot of innocence in her eyes. “Later, skater.”
I stir passata with a wooden spoon and add in a sprinkling of fresh herbs from the garden that’s still underway.
“It smells nice,” Piper says in a cordial voice that almost blasts me back to the past.
Warm. Comforting.
Like the food I’m now cooking, as a substitute for her.
Piper readies the table, and our kids hop up next to each other, both quiet.
Ellie takes a while to warm up to people, especially random boys she doesn’t know who prefer to play with toy planes, not Barbies. These two have nothing in common, and for the sake of this being temporary, I hope it stays that way.
I set the pot on the table and carefully drizzle homemade tomato sauce over bread.
“What’s this?” Piper asks.
“My own recipe,” I answer, dishing out veggies onto the kids’ plates. “Mine and Ellie’s favorite.”
“Youhaveto try some, Piper. Dad cooks a mean tomato sauce.”
“Mean?” I scoff. “Is that what all the cool kids in your class are saying now?”
“Dad,” starts Ellie. “Iam cool. All of my classmates want to know what it’s like being in New York.”
“I want to go to New York,” Sonny interjects.
This stalls Piper for a moment. She moves on, helps dish out the rest of the roasted veggies, and plops down on the chair next to her son. “What do you say to Caleb, Sonny?” She elbows him lightly.
“Thank you for cooking, Caleb.” He looks up at me with timid brown eyes.
