“The food.”
“What do you mean?” I see the puzzlement in his eyes.
“You don’t cook food like that for someone you don’t love.”
“This is my restaurant, Riley. I cook like that for everyone.”
“You must have a lot of love to give, then,” I declare. “Mine tasted especially delicious.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
21
Jae and I fall into a routine that keeps my heart in balance and time passes for me in a way that it hasn’t before. The days morph into one another and the weeks roll past me like subway cars in a station. With ease. Without grief. Every day I look forward to seeing him, and every day I do see him. It is a dream come true for my feeble heart.
We countdown the days until June under my bed covers. I meet Jae at the restaurant at nine every morning and paint with his mother until noon. I go to group therapy and make an effort to participate. We walk home together from The Red Kettle after the dinner service, and I catch up on all the things I’ve missed in life until it’s time to go to sleep.
Nights spent with Jae are always gone in the blink of an eye, the flap of a firefly’s wing, the slamming of a cab door. But he’s always back in an instant. He’s everywhere I go.
A text message saying good morning.
A note in my paint box.
A leftover meal in my refrigerator.
All the things that made me grieve Grant are all the things that make me love Jae. I see him in a bouquet of lilies at the corner bodega, a song on the radio, a steaming mug of tea.
In June, I pack up Jae’s apartment for the second time. All the things that made me sad when I packed it up the first time, make me happy the second time. This time I am not alone. This time it is not goodbye forever. This time is different.
Jae and I spend two weekends packing and moving to his new space, already undergoing renovations. He reminds me with each kiss that this time is different, each brush of his fingertips, each minute he spends listening to me spill my fears. I am not afraid anymore.
In July, we find our routine drenched with rolls and rumbles of summer thunderstorms like the ones that drench the city. Eventually, after trial and error and a week apart, we find a new one. I see him every morning to paint with his mother at The Red Kettle, but I spend one weekend at his apartment in Gramercy, he spends the next with me in the West Village. Jae is both awfully suspicious and excited about his apartment renovations—using tarps to keep me from seeing the final products of his efforts, but at the same time saying, “You’ll love it, I promise!”
He fills my apartment with delicious meals and fresh flowers every night. He takes up space in voids I had left empty for so long. I am not afraid to take up his time any longer, either. I love my new life. I’ve wanted this for so long, and I’ve finally let myself have it.He makes my apartment a home, and Jae’s presence makes me home even when I am by myself.
One hot and humid midsummer evening, we are walking up to Jae’s new building, the building decorated with an intricate stone facade and a large front stoop. I’m dripping in sweat waiting for Jae to unlock the vestibule door when he grabs my hand and pulls me towards him into an equally sweaty hug.
“What was that for?” I am disgusted but also pleased with his sudden touch as he slides his hands from my shoulders down tomy waist. Even months later, his hands still send electric shocks coursing through my body like an earthquake from an epicenter.
“Just because,” he answers, sweat also dripping from his brow, his hands wandering from my waist to the small of my back to my ass.
“That doesn’t seem like just because!” I exclaim as he squeezes my butt.
“Actually, there is something I want to talk about.”
My face suddenly twists into something crestfallen, confused about what he could want to talk about so suddenly. The night is going well. After I dropped Lily off at her pet hotel, I met him at The Red Kettle to help him close the restaurant, and made sure to pack a fully stocked overnight bag for a sex-filled and relaxing weekend at his apartment after not seeing each other for more than a few hours in a presentable manner for three days.
“Talk about what?” I ask, but he’s still smiling like he didn’t just give me a fucking heart attack.
“Come with me,” He gives my ass one last squeeze before taking my hand again, totally sweaty, and guiding me up the stairs and into his apartment. We toe off our shoes, and he guides me through the construction zone that is the kitchen and hallway.
The dusty plastic sheet that was formerly covering what would be his new den is finally gone, and instead, I am greeted by…something else.
“What is going on with your den? Why is there a sink?” I’m confused. There’s a large, industrial sink placed in the corner of the room—exactly where I thought he was going to be placing a built-in bookshelf.
