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“Not a problem,” he says, relaxing.

“Are you serious about this?”

“Yes. Sorry about Tonio—you know how he gets—but I’ve been thinking about it for a while. It’s the best thing for my career.”

“I understand,” I say, and I do. I’m a millstone holding him back, and I’ve had a good run with him. Almost a whole year since our first online hook-up. That’s far longer than I’ve ever had with anyone before.

“My god, Rye, you’re a saint. Don’t you want to yell at me or something?”

“Would it do any good?” There’s anger there, percolating under the disappointment, but mostly, I just feel tired.

“No, I don’t think so,” he says, and that’s when I really know it’s true. It’s ending.

“You must know by now…that’s not really my style. Let’s talk over some logistics. Do you have a place to go?”

“Antonio’s place.” No surprise there.

“Fine. That makes things easy. Could you plan to move out in a week or two? I’ll camp out on the couch while you’re putting everything in order.”

Enzo scurries out the door soon after, saying, “I have a rehearsal.”

I stand in the empty room, staring at my artificial tree, twinkling quietly and waiting for decorations, wondering what’s next. Do I want to break something, something of his? Of course not…like I said to him, that’s not my style. How about dumping his stuff on the doorstep? No…that would just set the neighbors gossiping, and I certainly don’t need more gossip. It will be best to keep it simple and focus on what’s right in front of me. Some pillows and blankets for the couch, so I don’t have to worry about that later, then some dinner. I don’t want to cry, at least not yet, so I turn to my best friend.

“Jake, buddy, we’re going to make a night of it.”

I rummage through the fridge, looking for inspiration. I have some lamb waiting for another Indian dish, and some broccoli. My tentacles always love the textures of broccoli, and I’ll tailor the lamb spices for them this time, with just enough heat to keep them dancing.

I leave the cookbooks in the cupboard and improvise. Onions to start, naturally, and some garlic. My eyes water and my tentacles tuck themselves away, but the acrid discomfort is yet another one of the unique pleasures of cooking, and it will soon pass. As they’re browning, it’s time to decide on spices. Whole cinnamon, clove, and cardamom, then some garam masala, turmeric, maybe some chile powder. I add pinches of a dozen others, challenging myself for later. Will I be able to taste a few anise seeds in this heady mixture of pure flavor?

When the tomatoes are rendering up their oils and the lamb is browned, I put the whole thing on simmer and get to work on the rice and vegetables. I let Jake channel his wolf roots and reserve his half of the lamb raw, flipping him pieces to keep him interested. The broccoli goes in the steamer, and I’m ready to sit with a beer and wait.

“What do you think?” I ask. “Janeway or Picard?”

“Woof!”

“Totally agree. It’s a Next Generation kind of night.”

I pull out my good china and dust it off, plating my dinner carefully with a dollop of soothing plain yogurt on the side. I pour another beer and arrange three of Bertie’s kouign-amann on a smaller plate. The whole thing is worthy of social media, not that I have any accounts, so I snap a picture with my phone. Is it my last meal on death row, I chuckle darkly, or the first meal of the rest of my life? Time will tell.

My patient pup gobbles his dinner in a frenzy of canine joy and soon curls up next to me in front of the TV.

Truly, with all the disappointments in the world, Jake is the one friend I can always count on.

8

HIDEO

“Are we doing presents this year?” Bertie asks as we sit down for dinner. I picked up some tacos at our favorite little hole-in-the-wall—fast, easy, and tasty.

“I hope not!” I answer, “I haven’t gotten anything for you.”

I feel an odd mixture of guilt and relief. Maybe we should get back to all that holiday romance, looking for a silly holiday sweater to show off my sexy bear and holding hands while we drive through neighborhoods filled with lights. We somehow found time for stuff like that back in those first few years after we met, but it seems like the holiday comes and goes so quickly now, and we’re both so busy.

“Oh, good,” Bertie says, looking relieved, so I try to stifle my guilt. “I can barely wrap my mind around finding stuff for the kids. Has your sister sent a list yet? I got one from mine.”

“I’ll bug her again. I can sort it out this weekend, if you don’t mind me choosing everything.” It will have to be this weekend, if we want the presents to get there in time.

“Please, that would be great. Sounds like a plan.”