I shake my head. “No. I loved living with you. And I want as much time with you as I can get when you’re not traveling.” Being a couple will be something George and I have to navigate together, but sharing the same space is one thing we’re already good at.
“We can start a new collection of old plates,” he says. “Cook together. And I’d love for you to come with me when I’m on assignment. When you can.”
I can see it so clearly. Exploring the world with George. Shopping in markets and at food stands, new scents filling my nose. Scribbling recipe ideas in a notebook. Cooking. Tasting. Eating together.
“I’d like to explore more of this country,” I say. “I want to see all the places you love.”
“That,” he says, bringing my fingers to his lips, “sounds like an excellent plan.”
“I think it could work,” I say.
He squeezes me tighter. “I think so, too.”
“But what if it doesn’t? What if we kill each other?”
“We won’t fight.”
I laugh. “We will.”
He kisses my shoulder. “I swear I’ll be a saint.”
I turn in his arms. “How often do you think you’ll resort to quoting Christian Bale to win an argument?”
“We’re not arguing.” His grin flashes. “But fairly regularly.”
I turn around, nestling myself against him, big spoon, little spoon. “It’s not fair, you knowing all my weak spots.”
A hum vibrates in his chest. “It’s not fair, you being the greatest of mine.”
I bury my smile against his forearm, then anoint it with a kiss. “Let’s do it,” I tell him. “Let’s move in together. Let’s travel the world. Let’s burn the whole thing down.”
“What whole thing?” he whispers.
“Our friendship,” I tell him.
“Ah.” He tucks me in tighter and sets his chin on the top of my head. “Not to argue, but I see it differently.”
I laugh. “Oh really?”
“Mm-hmm. I don’t think we’re burning it down. Our friendship is the fire. I think we’re giving it oxygen.”
Chapter Forty-five
We Were Twenty-One
We were covered in flour. It was dusted on George’s nose, sprinkled on his hair like icing sugar, and all down his front. My arms were white with it. It was Monday night, and we were making pasta from scratch.
According to my boss, I was both the most promising and the sloppiest cook in the Greater Toronto Area. He was exaggerating but only mildly. George didn’t mind. Cleaning gave him something to do while I cooked. He’d never been content to just watch.
He was in his fourth and final year of his journalism program. I’d graduated two years earlier and was now working on the line at the wildly popular Ronda. In my circle, I was a rising star. And so was George. He was editor in chief of the student paper and praised by his peers and instructors alike for his determined reporting and beautiful writing—apparently the two didn’t always go hand in hand. On the rare occasion that I hada night off when George was out with his friends, I watched them orbit him, jostling for his attention. It was jarring—not that George was the clear leader, but how rich his life was outside our bubble.
I was busy, too, and it had become difficult to spend time together. Thursday and Friday evenings used to be ours, but now I worked six days a week. Mondays were my day off, and we spent those nights in the kitchen together. A nonnegotiable.
We were making linguine that Monday. I discovered a knack for handmade pasta in school, and it was one of my favorite things to make with George—not only because it’s helpful to have an extra set of hands when you’re working with long sheets of dough. Pasta takes a lot of time from start to finish, which gave us hours to catch up.
I fed a wide ribbon of dough into the machine. It came out in a thinner sheet on the other end, which George captured, laying it over his wrists and then setting it down gently on the floured countertop.
“I have some news,” he said.
