She chuckles, biting her bottom lip. “Fine.”
“I said, got it?” I repeat louder.
“Got it!” she hollers back.
“Okay, good. Now this is what we’re going to do,” I say as I pull her off the counter and back on her feet. “You’re going to let us help you unpack this box. Tell us where everything goes as we take it out, and we’ll be your humble servants.”
Crossing her arms in front of her chest, she tries to keep from smiling, but she can’t. “Okay fine.”
Reaching into the box, I pull out a stack of stainless-steel bowls.
After giving them a quick look, Freya points to a lower cabinet against the wall. “Down there.”
“Yes, Chef,” I reply obediently.
Julian rolls up his sleeves and joins us. He pulls out some whisks, and Freya points to a cabinet on the wall.
“Yes, Chef,” he says with a hint of coyness, making Freya blush.
For the next hour, we unpack three boxes worth of cast-iron pans, knives, and stockpots. The three of us get into a groove working together.
Freya blasts one of her bizarre psychedelic rock playlists, and soon we’re all moving like we were made to be this way. With each task, we call back, “Yes, Chef,” growing louder and more intense with each one. Freya laughs a little harder each time, and it’s so nice to see her smile. This is how it was supposed to be. This is what Julian and I invested in, that look on her face. Her happiness.
“Are this many knives really necessary?” Julian asks as he places another along the magnetized strip on the wall.
Freya rushes over with a tense expression. “Yes!” she argues. “Leave my knives alone.” Then she meticulously arranges them in some order that she deems perfect. It’s cute to see her so in her element, and I’m reminded that she was made for this.
After we get the supplies done, we move on to the dry goods for the pantry. All her spices are arranged in round canisters, and after I open one, a puff of cinnamon floats out of the can like a cloud, making my eyes water and my throat burn.
Freya and Julian howl with laughter while I quickly replace the lid and shove it back on the shelf. “Ha ha,” I reply sarcastically as I wipe my eyes.
By the time we’re done, it’s late and we’re all feeling accomplished. In three weeks, this restaurant will be a real place. Freya will own a restaurant, but will she still have time for us? This business is going to require a lot of her time and energy. What will be left for this relationship?
With Julian working at the club and her working here, I worry that everything won’t be as perfect as it feels right now. Without them, I’ll fall back into fighting. Julian will put his walls back up. And Freya will never tell a soul about the time she had two boyfriends.
But as long as that day isn’t today, I’m not going to think about it. I could be wrong. Everything could be fine, and I could be worrying for nothing.
Rule #30: You can convey a lot with your eyes.
Freya
Balancing a paper bag filled with groceries, I walk throughthe doors of the apartment, greeting the doorman as I head toward the elevator. Before I hit the button to head up to Julian’s floor, I hear a grunting and pounding sound coming from the basement.
Ignoring the elevator as it beeps, I turn the opposite way and take the single flight of stairs into the building’s basement where a small gym is set up.
Reaching the bottom floor, I smile at the sight of Archer throwing punches at the large red bag hung from the ceiling. Placing the paper bag on a nearby bench, I tiptoe toward him. When I set my hand on the skin of his sweaty back, he jolts and turns toward me with surprise.
Yanking out his earbuds with a smile, he engulfs me in a sweaty hug. I squeal from the grossness, but it only makes him squeeze harder.
“What are you up to, Chef?” he asks.
I point toward the bag of groceries. “About to go make dinner.”
“You spoil us.”
“I know,” I reply with a shrug. “But I like spoiling you.”
He tears off his boxing gloves and tosses them on the floor. Then with his warm eyes on mine, he slides a hand along my jaw to the nape of my neck. Gently, he pulls me in for a soft kiss.
