Page 27 of Make Room for Love

They both looked out at the water again. “I’m sorry for ruining our outing with this argument,” Mira said. “I’m grateful you showed me your neighborhood. It really is lovely.”

“You didn’t ruin it. It’s good to be here.” Isabel had taken so many lonely walks along the river, frozen and dulled to allemotion. What a difference it made to have Mira with her, no matter how much it hurt.

Mira leaned back against the bench. Her curls were exquisite in the autumn sunlight. “This is a better view of the river than the one from the high-rise.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“Oh, I mean it. It’s better than being sealed in a glass box, looking down at everyone. I felt like I was in a cage.” She casually turned toward Isabel, and the light shifting across her face made Isabel’s breath catch in her throat. “The company is better, certainly.”

Isabel’s crushed heart was no one else’s problem. “I’m glad it worked out.”

12

When Mira openedthe door to the apartment, she was greeted by the scent of scallions and garlic in a hot pan. Isabel was stir-frying something, her sleeves rolled up to expose her impressive forearms, her hair in her usual braid. She turned and gave Mira a small nod.

Mira hadn’t seen much of her since their walk to the park two weeks ago. Yesterday, Isabel had told her that she could move out a month early if she wanted to, and had gone to great pains to clarify that it was purely for Mira’s convenience and Isabel wasn’t kicking her out.

Maybe it was nothing. Or maybe Isabel was avoiding her after that messy, painful conversation they’d had. Mira didn’t exactly have high expectations for Isabel being open and friendly, but the possibility still stung.

Isabel could be a surprisingly good listener. In her silences, she made room for Mira, and she didn’t say anything she didn’t mean. It was tempting to think they could be an unlikely pair of friends, given more time.

But Mira was moving out soon, hopefully by the end of the month. She already had a few apartment showings on her calendar. Isabel probably wouldn’t want to keep in touch, to gofor more walks in the park, to talk about herself unprompted for once. The truth was that there was no reason for Isabel to find Mira as compelling as Mira found her.

Mira dropped her bag on the dining table. “Do you mind if I heat up some leftovers in the microwave?”

“Go ahead.”

Mira opened the fridge. There were no leftovers. She’d finished her lentils yesterday.

She groaned. It had been a long day. She hadn’t had time to eat before the union meeting—which had ended late, as usual, because they hadn’t figured out how to finish a meeting on time at any point in the last four years. Given the state of her bank account, getting takeout would be unwise. She surveyed her side of the fridge, but there wasn’t much beyond two eggs, a mostly empty tub of yogurt, and a few sad-looking carrots.

“Something wrong?” Isabel said.

“No.Sorry. Just figuring out what I can have for dinner, since I don’t actually have any leftovers.” She could make a very small carrot omelette. The idea was not appealing. She closed the fridge.

Isabel was dumping the contents of the wok into a bowl: fried rice with vegetables and bits of red cured sausage. She didn’t reply. Mira was on her own.

Then Isabel said, “Let me make you something. I owe you one.”

“You do? I mean, thank you, but you don’t have to.”

“You cooked dinner for us a few weeks ago.”

Right. She’d done that to thank Isabel for helping her. But Isabel had been so grateful, and that had been its own reward, having her efforts in the kitchen be appreciated instead of taken for granted. And they’d had a nice meal together. Isabel didn’t owe her anything.

But Mira was too hungry to argue about the ledger of what favors they owed each other. “Okay, I’ll take you up on that. I really appreciate it. Um, I’m vegetarian, by the way.”

“I know.” Isabel had her back turned to Mira. She washed the wok she’d been cooking sausage in, which was rather thoughtful. “Excuse me,” she said, heading for the fridge, and Mira took the hint and got out of the way.

She sat at the dining table intending to do some reading. Instead, she watched Isabel cook, in graceful, economical motions, her braid swaying as she worked. When she chopped scallions with a cleaver, the cuts were so fast that Mira couldn’t tell them apart.

Isabel was as competent at cooking as she was at everything else—or at least everything that didn’t require her to make conversation. And the domesticity of it gave Mira a forbidden thrill. She was privy to something intimate that few people would ever see: Isabel making dinner in house slippers, an apron, and an old pair of jeans so worn they’d molded to every curve of her body. Just an ordinary Thursday night.

The sound and scent of sizzling scallions filled the air again. A few minutes later, Isabel brought out two bowls of fried rice. Mira’s had an extra fried egg on top, perfectly runny in the middle, scattered with finely slivered scallions.

They started eating. Mira couldn’t imagine a more perfect dinner. It was so simple, but Isabel knew what she was doing, and even the frozen peas, corn, and carrots from a bag took on new life. “Thank you so much,” she said, when she’d already finished more than half the bowl.

“It’s nothing,” Isabel said, rather gruffly. “How are you all doing on union cards this week?”

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