His patience makes how much I want him a living, breathing thing. It has its own pulse. I feel it when he’s across a room. When we pass each other in the kitchen, his hand grazing my knuckles. When I’m working in the store and remember the glide of his tongue against mine and have to stand with my hand braced against the shelves until my heartbeat slows down.
Sometimes we watch a movie, or he asks me to read to him, making my cheeks burn, but I do it. Other times, he just sits beside me while I write in my journal. He never asks what I’m writing about, and to be honest, I don’t know if I could tell him. It’s embarrassing how my journal has turned into all things Noah.
He’s at Aiden’s tonight. They both asked if I wanted to come. Noah asked me this morning before he left for work, leaving me with kiss-swollen lips and a goofy smile on my face. A few hours later, my brother texted me.
Aiden:Wanna come to my place to watch a game tonight? Lucy has Rose so I’m gonna order pizza and get some beers in. Noah and Theo are coming.
Me:I’m heading to Ciarán’s tonight for dinner. Next time?
Aiden:Sure thing, dinner soon, just Shaws. You can catch me up on how it’s going sucking face with my best friend!
My face was on fire reading it. Noah told me that Aiden knew, but I hoped he wouldn’t bring it up. Like ever. This will be prime material for him to tease me now.
Me: Please never use that phrase again.
The responding laughing emoji told me he probably would.
The walk to Ciarán’s house skirts the edge of Willowrun. I haven’t walked alone at night in so long, I’m surprised by my own ease. I even took the longer route, stopping at the store on my way. In some ways, this is easier than going somewhere alone during the day. Willowrun is a sleepy town if you stay awayfrom the main street and the wine bar, Velour. So there’s less chance of dealing with people at this hour. By the time I turn down his street, I can already smell coconut in the air, sweet and a little sun-drunk, completely Ciarán.
His house sits back from the road, small and perfectly itself—pastel pink, white window frames, a white picket fence and gate like something from a picture book. The front garden is beautifully kept, a riot of colorful flowers he somehow keeps blooming no matter the weather.
It’s so unexpected when you think of Ciarán, he’s all snappy wit and bratty attitude dressed in edgy fashion, strikingly beautiful, and a touch chaotic. But beneath the exterior, he’s warmth and a feeling of home. The house suits that part of him perfectly.
The door opens before I get a chance to knock. “And what time do you call this,” Ciarán says, eyes bright, mouth curved. “Get that fine ass in here.”
I laugh as I take my shoes off. Basil, garlic, and tomato scent the air; it’s a comforting smell that I will forever associate with him. Abbie is at the dining table with her feet tucked under her, a glass of white wine in one hand and a smirk already in place.
“We were about to send a rescue party,” she says.
“Sorry. I’m here now,” I reply, setting the bottle of red wine on the table by way of explanation. “Do I pass inspection?”
Ciarán lifts a finger in the air and signals for me to spin. I chuckle as I do it.
“Perfect, as always,” Ciarán says, kissing my cheek affectionately, leaving a light sheen of lip balm. I have to bend down so he can reach, even on his toes. “Open the wine. No wait—don’t. Let me finish the sauce first, you two just relax. Abbie, do not tempt him into drinking too much before we eat. The last time we did that, we were tipsy before the food was ready.”
I slip into the kitchen, finding the corkscrew, watching the way he moves in his space. Ease, certainty, joy. There’s a bottle of white open on the counter, but I prefer red. He gives me a roguish grin when he sees me. “I’m just letting it breathe,” I tell him innocently. Then I grab a glass and pour as he cackles at me. It can breathe in the glass.
The open-concept living area stretches past him: a bright rug under a low, teal velvet sofa, mismatched chairs that somehow match, a brass floor lamp with a scalloped shade. The whole place has his energy.
“You cooked,” I say, though it’s obvious.
The big pot of sauce, a pan of glossy eggplant, and a baking dish of roasted zucchini with lemon and breadcrumbs.
“What gave it away?” he sasses, pointing his wooden spoon. “Pasta al limonewith basil.Caponata. Focacciathat rose like a drag queen after a death drop. I also made a salad we can push around our plates and pretend we’re healthy grown-ups.”
Abbie leans to inhale the caponata. “I’m going to cry.”
“You always say that,” he says fondly, lifting a lid to check the sauce. “Gabe, taste this and tell me if it needs more salt.”
It never does, but I do as I’m told. I step forward, dip a fresh spoon in, and let velvety sauce coat my tongue. Bright lemon, butter, the green whisper of basil at the end. “It’s perfect,” I tell him.
He preens. “Now. Set the table before I get carried away and start a speech about my heritage.”
He plates everything with a flourish as I set the table, he brings it all over, pasta piled high, caponata in a shallow bowl, focaccia torn by hand and heaped on a rustic wooden board. It’s like something from a magazine cover. “Sit, children. Tell me your woes and tell me if you’re being hoes.”
I snort a laugh and take my seat. The chairs are all different heights, so I feel like a kid at a grown-up table. It gives me anoddly sentimental feeling. I always feel looked after with them. The first bite of pasta knocks a small groan out of me. Ciarán notices and grins. This is how he loves people—feed them, fuss over them, make sure they leave full. He’s never been one for saying the words out loud, not even when we were in college and drunk enough to say anything, but he doesn’t need to. I know he feels it.
“Come on. Tell me everything,” he says again, more pointed now, waggling his fork. “Preferably in the category of romantic developments.”
