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ETHAN

“The answer is no,” I tell Rowland as he drags my ass around the shops during the early-ish Christmas rush to replace all the shit I’m not missing in my apartment. “I’m not going on TokTik, Instafam or any other fucking social platform to make home cooking videos. I’m not that chef, I’m the other chef. The fuck off with that shit chef.” Row rarely has bad ideas, but this one is probably his worst to date. He gives me a droll look. “Listen, my wine videos have made me pretty popular, and all I’m saying is that it’ll keep you current until you get back into the game. That boarded up space you have won’t be that way forever, and I know you. You’ll be itching to get back into a kitchen pretty soon.”

“You’re an award-winning, Michelin star-rated chef, Row. Why the hell do you need to make wine videos? If you become any more popular, Gordon Ramsay is going to be kissing your ass,” I reply. “And for the record, I’m also an award-winning chef, and that doesn’t get taken away just because I’m on a hiatus after getting divorced. Why can’t a guy just wallow for a while? Jesus.”

“Wallowing is fine,” he dodges a woman rushing towards us with a shopping cart overflowing with homewares, and then joins me in the isle. “But you can’t do it forever. Getting a divorce must suck, but seriously Ethan, if you think I’m going to allow you to stay in this space,” he waves his hand around me, “I’d be a shitty best friend.”

“You’d be a shittier best friend if you forced me to stay in this Godforsaken store.” I frown, looking at all the people in BoConcept on Madison. It’s a furniture store, and Row already has a shopping cart filled with throw cushions, lamps, and a few other odds and ends. “You do know we can get everything online, right?” I prefer that to being in a store when everyone is doing their Christmas shopping all at once. Like someone called a meeting and said, “Let’s just go buy all our shit together, at the same time, on the same day, at the same store. All in favor say I.”

“I’m aware,” Row replies, distracted by a tan leather four-seater couch with two matching armchairs that are better suited in a home movie theatre than my standard-sized living room. “Here, take a seat.” He pats the spot beside him, very serious about what he’s doing. Me? I’m ready to call it a fucking day, even if it’s only eleven in the morning. “Just get it. I’m over this little expedition already.”

“You can’t just buy a couch, Ethan. It has to feel right, and be comfortable. If you’re not comfortable, your guests won’t be either. It’s Hospitality 101.” He’s not wrong, but, “I don’t plan on having guests. I lost most of my friends in the divorce because how dare I leave Willah in her condition, and the only people I care about in this fucking city are you and my old man.” Not completely true, but Row hasn’t mentioned her yet, and I won’t either. “So if you like the fucking couch, get it.” My tone, and cussing, garners some attention, but I don’t care. I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to shop and I certainly don’t want to celebrate the damn holidays this year. I want the year to be over already. Let’s skip December and January, and jump straight into February. Wait, February is the month of love so I’m happy to skip that too.

“You haven’t looked at any others,” he argues, but before he can bite me more shit, I drop my ass on the couch, and lean back. It is actually pretty comfortable.

“This one is fine,” I tell him, feeling the leather beneath my palm. “I don’t want to look at others.” It’s big enough for me to lie on, head to toe, which is a rare find for someone my height. And if I were to lie on my side, I could spoon — never mind. I don’t want to think about spooning anyone, unless they’re made of ice-cream, phyllo pastry or something you’d find in a patisserie. “You can add the matching armchairs as well.”

“That’s the spirit!” Row slaps me on the back, and the force jerks me forward. “Okay, kitchen stuff is next.”

“The kitchen is stocked,” I reminded him. “Knives, forks, plates, and glasses. And a Smeg coffee machine. I don’t need anything else.” There’s even an air fryer in the cupboard, but I don’t dare tell Row it’s there, he’ll throw it off the roof of my building and have me committed to a psychiatric hospital.

Row huffs, and spins to face me. He’s quite graceful, too. Considering his build. “That’s not a kitchen’s ass, and you know it. You need everything.”

I fold my arms across my chest, and I think to anyone else it might look like we’re having a lover’s spat. “I’m sure I don’t. I don’t want to cook. They have this handy thing called UberEats.” Though, some of their options make my stomach and my tastebuds want to shrivel up and die. “You’re not going not have your kitchen chef-ready, dude. I won’t allow it. Something is going to ignite that fire under your ass, and then what?”

Good question: and then what?

“I doubt it will be anytime soon,” I sigh, part of me hoping I’m right, the other part hoping I’m wrong. “But, whatever. May as well get everything while we’re out and about. I’m not braving this circus again until after the holidays.”

Row also has to work, out of the two of us he’s the one with functioning, open-for-business restaurants. All I have is a boarded-up empty space that feels more like my life right now than the potential to be something spectacular if that’s what I wanted.

Row takes this shopping more seriously than I do, but at the end of the day, I hand over my credit card and don’t bother looking at the amount. Not that I’m about to admit it, but he’s bought some stunning items, and yes, it will breathe a new life into what is now my home. And I want that. It’s as if he’s forced the whiteboard eraser into my hand, and made me wipe everything away. It only highlights, for me at least, how temporary things can be. We’re pushing the shopping cart out — I called up an Uber minivan — and I’m messing around on my phone when Row stops. I look at him, my brows furrowed. “What?”

“We didn’t get a Christmas tree,” he says, his eyes comically wide. I forgot he loves Christmas, and loves nothing more than to go all out for the holiday. For me, it’s just another holiday, I guess. And this year will be the first without my now ex-wife. So just me and Dad, then. Unless he’s working, which wouldn’t surprise me at all. I had to get my work ethic from somewhere. “And presents,” Row tacks on. “We didn’t buy a Christmas tree, or gifts.” The Uber pulls up to the curb, and when the driver sees our cart, he hops out, and slides the door open. The larger items will be delivered today — I don’t want to know how much that is costing me — but the driver starts packing away what he can. That takes about an hour, Row bought a lot of shit, and just before we can close the van, Row comes barreling through the exit with a massive Christmas tree. Thankfully, the fake kind. I have zero desire to get the real thing. “That’s too big!” I half-yell. No, really. It’s huge. Where he thinks that’ll fit, I’m not sure. Mind you, I do have high-rise beamed ceilings, so it should be fine.

Row smirks, and I realize my mistake too late. “That’s what he said.”

The Uber driver snorts, and I look to the heavens for some kind of divine intervention.

“You have a tree, and all the bells and whistles to go with it. When we get back to your place, you can have food sent over from La maîtresse while I set up your tree, and order presents.”

Row tells the driver to follow us back to Tribeca with my purchases, and when I’m in the cab of his truck, I ask, “Who exactly am I buying presents for, Rowland?”

“Me, and your Dad, obviously.”

Obviously.

“Will these be expensive gifts?” It doesn’t actually matter. I’m not hurting for money, I never have, but having your best friend use your credit card to buy himself and your dad a Christmas gift can be disastrous. But also incredibly funny.

I allow Rowland free reign when we get back to the apartment. I’ve often wondered if having an eye for interior design, or design in general, is part of a man’s hardwiring when he swings for his own team (he actually swings both ways, but hasn’t dated a woman in a while) because I’m clueless about color palettes, what looks good where, what clashes — you get my drift. But Rowland? He’s managed to transform a space that was once extremely impersonal, and sterile, into a space that’s inviting, warm, livable, and yes, I admit, a place that’s very me. But not the me who was married. Maybe it’s the version of me he hopes I’ll become, I’m not sure. Either way, the changes make me feel better. We start with the bedding in the master bedroom, and slowly make our way through the bathrooms, the two guest bedrooms, the home office space (my father’s doing, clearly. My office is kitchen.), the hallway, the open-plan living room (the couches arrive within the hour) and of course, Row saves the best for last. The kitchen. While Row sets everything up, repacks the cupboards with new cutlery, crockery, electronic utensils, I order us some food from his restaurant, La maîtresse. The Mistress, in English. And it’s while we’re waiting for it to be delivered that I peruse the restaurants on UberEats, since the inclination to cook for myself has yet to make an appearance.

“Everything on here is crap,” I tell him as soon as he takes a seat in one of the two armchairs. My furniture arrived amidst the cacophony of doing a home make-over in an afternoon. Looking up from his own phone, he asks, “What’s that?”

“The places on UberEats,” I scoff. “Not even your restaurant is on here.”

It’s his turn to scoff. “Of course not. It’s too good for that app.”

Chuckling, I shake my head. “You’re a food snob, Rowland.”