Page 104 of On the Line

40

OZZY

The apartment is quiet while I pad across the living room and into the kitchen, turning on the light. I left James sleeping in bed, but even with her comforting presence beside me, I couldn’t fall asleep.

So I decided to do what comes naturally—cooking.

It didn’t take long for my mind to start racing again. Sex was just a balm. I knew that. Butfuckwas it amazing while it lasted.

But now I can’t help but replay our argument. So much is still left unsaid. And as much as I would rather pretend nothing is bothering me—pretend I didn’t ignore James for the past week—I know we need to talk.

Maybe sharing a grilled cheese while having this difficult conversation can ease some of the ache.

Careful not to make any loud noises, I gather the ingredients I need.

Sourdough bread, butter, one green apple, and brie.

I put a pan on a burner, and prepare everything while it heats. Reaching for the cutting board, I focus my thoughtson the sound of the cracking crust while I cut through the bread. Then on the gritty crunch of the sliced apple.

Slowly, the kitchen becomes a liminal space existing outside of time and space.

My thoughts fizzle out, and the trained focus of my movements allows my mind some much-needed respite.

There’s a love/hate relationship to cooking. After a while, working in kitchens sucks the joy out of it. But then there are moments like these when making a grilled cheese in the middle of the night for the person I …love, saves me from spiraling into another panic attack.

Because, of course, I love James.

Falling in love with her was the easiest thing I’ve ever done.

Butsayingit out loud to her?

I don’t think I should. Not yet.

I don’t want to scare her away. Or come off too strong.

I’m perfectly fine loving her quietly—for now.

It definitely doesn’t explain why I pushed her away this week.

Which is why this talk is so needed.

The butter sizzles, and I gently place the bread slices into the pan, layering the brie and apple on top. I flip a dry rag over my shoulder and keep an eye on the pan while I prepare a dipping sauce, whipping whole-grain mustard, mayonnaise, and honey together.

When the brie turns gooey and the bread is nice and toasted, I cut the grilled cheese in half and plate them with one half leaning over top the other one. I smooth some of the dipping sauce on the plate with the back of a spoon and put the rest in a ramekin.

On soft feet, I return to the bedroom with our food. The lamp on my bedside table is still on from before, notseeming to bother James one bit. Setting the plates down on the bedside table, I crouch on the bed with one knee, and kiss James’ cheek to gently rouse her.

Her eyes blink open, brows pinched together with an adorable pout on her lips.

“What time is it?” she rasps.

“Just after two,” I say, my tone hushed. “Here, sit up. I made you some food.”

Suddenly wide awake, James’ eyes sparkle with gleeful excitement when I hand her a plate, after she’s scooted herself against the headboard.

“You made this for me?” she says in awe, placing the plate on her lap and looking down at it as if I gave her a bowl full of diamonds. “What’s in it?” she asks as she picks up the grilled cheese and examines it.

I stifle a laugh, and answer honestly, having learned that James prefers to know what she’s eating before taking the first bite. “It’s grilled cheese, with brie and apples.”

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