Page 33 of No More Love Songs

He almost chokes on his first bite, caught between laughing in disbelief and scoffing at my audacity. “Are you talking shit about my lunch? You have a problem with grains, chicken and tomatoes?”

“No problem.” I hold my plate out on display, bright blueberries and multicolored carrot slices covering a heap of greens, cucumber, cauliflower and yellow bell peppers. All of it, of course, topped with sunflower seeds. “Look, I’m not saying my lunch is prettier than your lunch, but I think we both know it is.”

He smirks, pointing his fork at my plate. “I’m still waiting to see you try and eat that thing.”

“Well, then. Let me put an end to your wait right now.” I cover my mountain of yummy colors with the top slice and use my palm to blend everything together with a gentle smushing. Then, using both hands, I very strategically peel the entire masterpiece from my plate and guide it toward my mouth. Not an average mouth, mind you. A mouth accustomed to opening wide enough to belt out loud dramatic notes meant for an entire arena to hear. Mic or not, I sing with the last person in the last row in mind.

Sinking my teeth into the bread, I close my eyes, giving in to the pleasure of taking the perfect first bite. It’s become a ritual of sorts for me over the past few days.

“Wow.”

I open my eyes to the sound. My mouth is too full to respond, so I just keep chewing and let my eyes do the talking.

“Oh, shut up,” he snaps playfully.

My eyes widen, displaying my clueless innocence.

He just chuckles and starts back on his own lunch, though noticeably with less enthusiasm.

“Want a bite?” I offer, when I finally swallow. “I’ll have to feed you though because there’s no setting this thing down once you pick it up.”

He eyes my sandwich, considering it, clearly torn between saying a polite no and the yes he wants to go with. “Yeah, okay, let’s try this beast.”

He slides down from the railing and comes over to meet my sandwich and me in the hammock. Very carefully, I hold it out toward him while he bends down to bring his mouth the rest of the way.

It’s a bit awkward, feeding someone from an overstuffed sandwich threatening to burst in your hands at any second, but we get it done and a second later, he’s backing up to the railing again, using his thumb to wipe hummus from his bottom lip as he chews, nodding profusely. “The people of the world are right,” he says, after several long moments of chewing. “You are master of the sandwich.”

“Told you.” I take another bite. A couple more and this thing will either get more manageable or completely fall apart. It’s hard to say, but I’ve decided the unpredictability is part of the fun. Although, it does suddenly occur to me that this is the first sandwich I’ve made that I’m eating in the company of someone other than Jack, who’s learned to stay close by when I’m eating these things. And for good reason. It gets messy. Things drop. And she makes for an excellent cleanup crew.

Thankfully, this sandwich is the easier to eat sort once I relieve it of some of its contents. “Can I tell you something totally silly and totally awesome at the same time?”

He grins. “It should be a general rule that you have to tell me things that are totally silly and totally awesome.”

I’ll take that as a yes. “I love sandwiches. Like, I stupid love them. Love making them. Love eating them. Love looking at them.” I feel like maybe he’s not understanding the intensity of my love here. “I’ve taken pictures of every sandwich I’ve made since I’ve been here, Kit. I’m like, obsessed.”

“With sandwiches.” He’s not asking, more like confirming he’s received the message. Then he smirks. “Is that what this new song is about? Sandwiches?”

“No, jackass.” I catch a rogue blueberry trying to get away and pop it in my mouth. “It’s about being a prisoner to your past and how to break free.”

He nods, eyes back on his own food while he pokes around in it with his fork. I don’t think he’s looking for anything in his quinoa salad as much as he’s thinking over my pitch. “Prisoner to your past how? By holding on to old heartbreak? Old lovers? Old ideas of who you are?”

“More like expectations we had about our lives that stopped applying somewhere along the way.” Then I think about it some more. “Or maybe it’s about the lies we’ve collected about ourselves, things people have said to us, shit we’ve said to ourselves that ends up holding us back, limiting us, keeping us small when we should be going big and changing that dialogue.”

“Like with sandwiches.” He looks up to smile at me again.

“I hate when you do that. Say something that sounds like you’re making fun of me but doing it in a way that’s totally serious, like you get what I’m saying.”

He averts his eyes to focus on his chicken again. “Because I do get what you’re saying. And I’m not making fun of you. I just happen to like the way your brain works.”

“Oh.” I shove the last big bite into my mouth. Mostly to keep from saying anything else. He’s left me with a wide opening to fill with thinking out loud about things I should probably sort out in silence before I voice them.

When I stay quiet even after I’ve chewed and swallowed, Kit takes it upon himself to disrupt the stillness. “I believe you said there would be a speech? Some groveling with the possibility of bribery?”

I clear my throat. “Right.” I set my plate down on the small table beside the hammock and dust the crumbs off my hands. “Here’s the thing.” Then I draw a blank.

“There’s a thing?” he prompts me to continue.

“The thing is,” I stall trying to jog my own memory but all I seem to be able to think about is how I never noticed the tattoo on his chest only visible now that the second and third buttons of his shirt are undone.

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