I choose my words carefully. “My mom definitely wishes we still lived in the same city.”
“Tell me about it. Ry doesn’t bring it up but I know he wishes the same.” She bumps his shoulder with hers. “Although it’s nice being able to make a mess once in a while. You should see his place—it looks like a serial killer’s.” She takes a big bite of her sandwich. “So why’d you move?”
“Celine, can you at least pretend to be polite?” Ryan says.
“No, but seriously,” she goes on, “your work is mostly virtual or requires travel. You could do that from anywhere. If I didn’t have to be on campus, I’d never have moved so far away.”
I sip my water, washing down the sandwich bread that seems to swell in my throat. It’s a question I’ve answered countless times,and this is the calmest way it’s been asked of me. As in, not by an inconsolable middle-aged Armenian woman begging me to explain how I could ruin her life this way. I’ve come up with every answer under the sun—always careful to avoid the full truth.
“It’s more central, for traveling,” I respond circumspectly. “And I love it there.”
It’s the partial truth, at least. I had visited New York before, but upon moving there, it felt like emerging into the sun after a bleak, endless night. Boston had been home for twenty-five years, but that last year after Dad died changed the face of the city for me. Its familiarity tainted by grief. By the crushing weight of absence. By the heartache of having to carry it alone.
New York offered new life. The vastness, the opportunities, the mix of every different kind of person you could ever hope to meet, the constant frenetic energy of millions of people pulsating through the veins of this grand metropolis. Finally being able to breathe. To feel something other than loneliness.
“Why didn’t your mom move with you?” Celine asks, and Ryan gives her an exasperated look.
Mom did raise the possibility. She doesn’t have anything keeping her in Boston, since Mar’s parents relocated to L.A. a few years after she and I moved to New York. Mom suggested potentially moving to New York herself, but I gently discouraged it, evading her queries and citing that she wouldn’t be any better off near Mar and me when we’re so busy and traveling all the time. That was also a partial truth—I couldn’t exactly tell her that I needed space. That her grief was swallowing my soul, and her endless groaning about my leaving medicine was crushing my ability to keep the necessary smile on my face.
She finally relented, and has since made a handful of murmurings about joining Maral’s parents in L.A. I’ve urged her to do it, but she’s concerned about being so much farther away from me than she already is, knowing I’d visit even less with that muchdistance between us. Hence my plan for us to all settle in L.A. together. New ground, with reliable buffers, so that I’m not bearing the weight of her needs alone. She’ll have family there, her sister- and brother-in-law, and friends—other Armenians who’ve immigrated over the years, joining the largest concentration of the American diaspora. She’ll have me again, and I’ll be able to tolerate her presence for longer than a few minutes at a time because she’ll finally be satisfied with my career choice once I’m lighting up her TV screen.
And I won’t have to visit Boston ever again.
“It’s something I’m trying to solve,” I say. “Figuring out a plan for us to live near each other again.”
Celine smiles. “The hardest thing about going to school across the country is being far away from my family—especially this guy.” She punches Ryan’s arm. “Pretty tough lesson that not everyone will bend over backward to fulfill my every need. You set the bar too high—now I’m ruined forever.”
“Be honest. You just miss my cooking,” Ryan teases, but he gives her a smile so warm that something dissolves behind my sternum. It’s clear from his expression that he misses the hell out of her too. I can’t even imagine living far away from Maral, only seeing her on holidays and summer vacations. It just doesn’t compute, how you can be anywhere but in close proximity to yourperson.
Then I clue in to what he said. “You cook?” I ask him.
He turns his grin on me. “Yeah.” His eyes flicker over my face. “I cook.”
The domestic image my mind conjures is too pleasing. Ryan moving efficiently around a kitchen, focused on a task, creating something from scratch, nourishing his loved ones. Doesn’t hurt that in my vision he’s wearing a pair of gray sweats that leaves very little to the imagination.
“You?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I char. But I look cute perched on a counter, glass of wine in hand, chatting with the person cooking.”
He regards me closely, throat working on a slow swallow. He reaches for his water.
Celine grips my forearm. “Ry makes thebestpancakes you’ll ever have in your life. They’re the ideal combination of airy and fluffy but also, like, substantial? My favorites are the ones with blueberries, but the plain ones are good too…”
She keeps speaking but I can’t hear her anymore, practically tasting the heaven she described on my tongue. Is it possible? Could this man who kisses like a wet dream also make the best version of my favorite food? I need to stop learning things about him—the positive attributes are going to short-circuit my brain.
“Will you move back to New York when you graduate?” I ask, picking up the second half of my sandwich.
“Yeah, I mean, I hope so!” she says. “It depends on job prospects and stuff. I have one more year after this one, and I have to start building my network.”
“I’ll introduce you to Maral,” I say. “She hasn’t worked in the field in a while, and only ever in Boston, but I’m sure she has contacts elsewhere on the East Coast.”
“Really?” she squeals. “Oh wow, that would be amazing!”
Ryan’s eyes meet mine as he mouthsthank you. I would have done it anyway, but his appreciation is a nice bonus.
I text Mar to see when she’ll be back from touristing this afternoon, and see she’s already sent me four messages.burritos a bad callwith a squiggly-mouthed emoji. A selfie of her and Shanthi with the beautiful red arches of the bridge behind them, followed byyou’re missing out, then, fifteen minutes later,shanth wants to go on a “bay adventure” whatever that is. involves a boat. maybe meet a sexy sea captain. meet us at the fillmore tonite?
“She and my content manager are going to check out who’splaying at the Fillmore later this evening. We can meet her there?” I suggest.
