He’s right. The room will soon be a headache-inducing symphony of combating smells, but I don’t admit it.
“Geranium’s scent comes from the leaves,” I mutter as I bend to light the last one, a spicy orange clove. He doesn’t move, but when I go to the kitchen, I hear the sound of luggage being unlocked.
The distraction of lighting the burner and putting water on to boil for pasta gives me enough time to calm down. He’s in my space, but he’s only here briefly. I want him to leave me alone the way he has for years, not once trying to contact me, but I’ll be rid of him soon enough.
Shivering, I go to my room to change my wet clothes. The temperature is dropping, and I reach for my thickest sweats. I could make an effort to not look like a slob, but what’s the point?
The point is that I want him to see I don’t care enough to make the effort, which is kind of…caring enough to make an effort.
Rafe calls my name from the kitchen, and it gives me a jolt. He called me Lucy this time, but he drew out theuthe tiniest bit, the same way he did when we were teenagers. A sickening wave of nostalgia overtakes me, and I lay my hands on the dresser for some deep breaths before I go back out. Rafe is dressed in a black hoodie, with jeans that fit him too nicely. I run my eyes down his body. He filled out in ways I hadn’t expected, and I wrench my gaze away. He doesn’t seem to notice my attention, because he’s looking around my kitchen. Thank God.
“Your water is boiling over,” he says.
Right, dinner. I pour farfalle into the pot. It’s the only kind of pasta I buy, because the fun little bow ties cheer me up every time I look at them. I’m glad they work their usual magic today. Rafe moves away tostand in the living room.
“It smells like an aromatherapy shop,” he says.
Since I’m on alert for anything that could be construed as criticism, I react badly. “I invite you to leave.”
“I like it,” he says quietly. “It reminds me of you experimenting with your perfumes.”
“Oh. Thanks.” I can’t help but glance over. He’s frowning at a candle, one finger tracing a line down the side, but then he shakes his head and moves to the window, where he twitches back the curtain to check the storm.
I use my phone light to find the Parmesan Reggiano in the dark fridge, then grate a bowl to go with the pasta as I worry about how to get through the evening. What could we talk about when forbidden topics include home, work, relationships, and childhood memories?
The thing is…it’s hard to avoid these issue-laden areas since so much of a friendship is based on reliving shared histories. That’s why I have so few friends. None, in fact, or maybe a half or three-quarters of one with Ana. I was never around enough to build those joint experiences. It doesn’t matter, though. Rafe and I might have been friends once, but after so long, we’re worse than strangers.
Distant politeness, Lucy. You can do this. We sit across from each other at the counter to eat.
“This is great Parmesan,” he eventually says.
“I got it from my favorite cheese store. Half my profits go to their cheddar.” We used to compete to come up with the weirdest names we could give a place, and I wonder if he remembers. I have an urge to connect with him that’s at odds with the story I’ve told myself all these years—that I don’t want him at all. It’s confusing and I don’t like it, but I know I’m going to give in.
“Cheesateria?” I say it tentatively.
“Cheesonette?” he says.
“Fromagaterama,” I counter.
This makes him laugh, a real laugh that I haven’t heard since I left Vancouver. It’s like a punch, the way it affects me. The sound is filled with the afternoons we spent giggling at old screwball movies, or the weekend we decided to bake cookies and dropped the flour on the floor. Rafe laughed so hard he fell down, causing another massive explosion of white powder to settle around the room and send us into coughing fits.
I want those days back so bad I ache.
In the candlelight, Rafe’s face is soft with fatigue. “I missed this,” he says.
“Snow? You get that in Vancouver.” I deliberately misunderstand him so he has to take the lead in the conversation I suspect is coming.
“Not the snow.” His eyes close as if he doesn’t dare to look at me. “Lucy. Can we talk?”
Here it is, and my heart beats in my throat when I bend my head to look at the counter. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Us.” The little word is like a bullet. “I want to talk about us and what happened.”
“Why?” I shift my gaze to what’s left of my pasta. “It’s in the past. Why dredge it up?” I both want and do not want this talk.
“Because it bothers me.” Rafe’s voice is hard. “It’s been years, but it’s a shadow I can’t get out from under. I’m sick of it.”
I want to get up and run out of the apartment. Surely a Hague tribunal would categorize this as torture. Then I glance at my generic furnished apartment and, like Rafe, know that I’m sick of the shadow as well. He’s giving me a path out and my internal debate ends. I’ll do it like a Band-Aid. Rip it off.
