I can handle my version of it; I’ve been training for years. I don’t know what hers will look like, or if it will show up at all, and that uncertainty is its own kind of responsibility.
I don’t want her to open her eyes to an empty room. I also don’t want her to wake into a watchman staring at her.
There’s a third option. Be useful.
I ease her arm off my ribs by degrees, sliding my hand under her wrist and setting it on the mattress with the care of a man moving something that matters. She murmurs, turns her face deeper into the pillow, and gives me a centimeter of space. I use it. I slip out from beneath the sheet, plant my feet on the rug, and stand.
I pull on sweatpants, skip the shirt, and pad through the dark toward the bathroom to rinse my face and brush the night from my mouth.
When I come back, she hasn’t moved. A lock of hair is stuck to the corner of her mouth. I want to free it with my thumb. I leave it. She’s beautiful like this.
Kitchen. Food. If shame comes knocking, let it find its path blocked by pancakes and chocolate. She’ll need salt, sugar, water. Something bright and fresh.
I take the hallway slowly, careful not to make too much noise. I step into the kitchen, and the habit of order takes over—coffee first because I will be less stupid after two sips, lights on low, exhaust fan off. The kitchen is clean because Clara exists and because I rarely use it.
Chocolate. I promised myself chocolate. I open the pantry and do a quick inventory. Baking chocolate in bars, dark. The good cocoa. A small jar of Nutella that I pretend I stock for Clara’s sake.
I set a small saucepan on the stove and drop in a little milk, a splash of cream, and a square of chocolate to melt. It willtake a minute; it gives me something to stir while my head stays quiet.
Juice. Coffee is probably not the best bet this morning. I pull the orange juice and a small bottle of pomegranate from the fridge. Orange, splash of pomegranate. A beautiful swirl of orange and deep red in the glass.
Pancakes or eggs. I stand with the fridge open longer than necessary. What does she eat for breakfast? I know how she takes her coffee in meetings. I know she is capable of giving a twenty-minute briefing without looking down once. I know the sound she makes when she comes.
I do not know if she prefers something savory in the morning, or something sweet.
Make both, idiot.
I set out eggs, butter, flour, baking powder, sugar, salt. I grab the cast-iron skillet and the griddle. I pull blueberries from the fridge, decide against them, and put them back. Cinnamon goes on the counter. Vanilla, too.
I whisk batter without overthinking it, the way my mama beat it into me years ago: don’t chase every lump. Let time smooth them out. While it rests, I start eggs in a separate bowl, crack four, add salt, a little water for steam, whisk to pale yellow. Pan on medium-low. Butter in.
A door in the back hall clicks, followed by light steps. I don’t jump, but my jaw sets.
It’s Friday. How could I forget that it’s Friday and Clara would be coming in to do the things I will absolutely ignore all weekend?
“Madonna,” Clara says, taking in my shirtless chest, the mess I’m making, and the fact that I look like… well, like a man who did exactly what I did last night. “Che succede, eh?”
“Clara.” My voice is lower than I intend. I soften it. “Buongiorno.”
She scans the counters, zeroes in on the chocolate like a heat-seeking missile, and then flicks her gaze toward the hallway to the bedrooms. A smile blooms slow and wide. “Ahh.”
I rub a hand over the back of my neck because I am forty-four years old and apparently still a teenager when it comes to these matters. “Don’t start.”
“Who’s starting?” she says, innocence personified. She glides into the kitchen and picks up the whisk without asking. “You? Making breakfast?” She clucks her tongue. “She must be special.”
“She’s sleeping,” I say. “Keep your voice down.”
“Sleeping,” Clara repeats in a tone that communicates volumes. She opens the oven, checks nothing, nods like something passed inspection, and closes it. “Bene. Then we will make breakfast quietly, yes? You burn things when you are distracted.”
“I don’t burn things.”
“You burn pancakes.”
“I have literally never burned pancakes.”
“You burn pancakes, Roberto,” she insists, tapping my temple with the whisk. “Too many thoughts. The pancakes suffer. Step aside.”
I step aside because there are fights worth having, and fights you might as well give up on before they even start.
