The place is absolutely bustling, and David waves to a number of people from town. The fishermen and lobstermen who devour endless seafood from David’s truck also want meat and veggies now and again, and they are clearly happy to make the drive to get some.
I have to capture all of this. As small plates come to our table, I’m rejuvenated. This kind of food makes me recommit to sharing what I love. We devour patatas bravas, gambas al ajillo, albondigas, and—my all-time favorite—white anchovies. Dave laughs as I scoop up these little fish onto a slice of exquisitely homemade bread.
And his aunt is thrilled to have me behind the scenes, recording in the kitchen as she cooks, and even David gives his nod of approval. He’s sweetly crazy about this warm, wonderful woman.
Who would have thought that a tapas place would be thriving in such a rural town?
The meal is amazing. His aunt is amazing. This food makes me want to scream. I do my best not to groan and kick up my feet while I eat. My posts about this are going to get such love, and I cannot wait.
As we walk out, hand in hand, I make Dave promise that we are coming back for this feast at least once a week until I leave.
And then we both suddenly realize that neither of us knows when I’m leaving. This trip was never set in any kind of stone. I’ve been sort of squatting in his Airbnb.
I fumble a bit as we get to his car. “This was all supposed to be temporary. An escape. And now it’s more complicated.”
“Or maybe it’s now simple.” He pushes me back against the car and brushes back my hair. “There’s no reason to figure things out now.”
“At least through the holidays maybe,” I say. “It’s not as though I have family or plans that mean anything.”
“Then stay with me. My family would love to have you.”
“They know about me?”
He laughs. “No. But they will.” His voice softens in the cutest way. “I want them to.”
Back at the house, I feed Top Cat, who meows when I open a can of food and then licks my hand when I offer him a treat that Dave picked out. A pureed treat that I’ve spread over my wrist, which Whiska loves.
It’s such a fun interaction, even when he retreats back to his cube. To boot, he gives me happy tail wags when I read him a book.
Dave and I ease into bed, a routine that feels so wonderful.
“Stay as long as you’d like. Maybe don’t leave. Not ever.”
His words shake, and envelop, and terrify, and fill me with love.
Chapter 22
Thanksgiving Day is both wonderful and horrible.
And I don’t know how to land with the message that I get from Katrina.
For years, Patrick called on every holiday, announcing who he was and where he was calling from. As if I didn’t know.
“This is Patrick, calling from Cleveland, wishing you a happy…”
This year is different, and thankfully, I am not alone in this bed, but in someone’s arms when I listen to a voice message from Katrina. Her voice is exuberant. Vibrant. Maintaining Patrick’s tradition.
“Hello, my friends! This is Katrina, calling from Cleveland to wish you a happy Thanksgiving! And here is Tommy to send you some love too.”
I laugh and choke-sob as I watch a video of Tommy toddle around and blow kisses per his mom’s request.
“Hi, DiNah! Hi, BobBob.”
His little-man mispronunciation of our names is charming.
After I watch more video of Tommy playing with toys and such, she switches to a video of just her. “Sorry I can’t do more right now, but I wanted to at least send you something.” She tries to smile, but rubs a sleeve against her nose. “You guys are too much of a reminder of him. I love you. I’ll try to do better next time.”
RobBob texts me a few minutes later.
