Page 112 of The Pairing

I ponder this. “You know, I think I assumed you would be a red, but that’s perfect for you.”

“Oh, Kit.Youare a red.”

“I’ma red? Why?”

“Come on. Deep, indulgent, immortalized in a million Renaissance paintings, made to be poured between ass cheeks at a bacchanal. You’re a red.”

“That does sound like me,” I say, nodding thoughtfully. “But a light-bodied red.”

“I’d say medium-bodied but light on its feet. Fruity.”

“Naturally.”

“French. Rhône-adjacent. If you’re a grape, you’ve got to be Gamay.”

“I’ve heard of that one. What’s it like?”

“Well, versatile, first of all.”

“Famously.”

“Notes of pomegranate and raspberry. Soil. A lot of flowers too. Peony, iris.” With a significant look, they add, “Violets, actually.”

“You’re very good at this. You do know that, don’t you?”

“It’s weird. I think I might almost be. . .afraid to be good at it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been thinking about something,” they tell me. “Today, at the Borghese, I was like, what if I pick one thing in this gallery and spend the whole time with it? Instead of speeding through the entire museum for a hundred five-second hits of dopamine, what if I stand here and let this be the only thing I experience?”

“And how did that feel?”

“It felt. . .uncomfortable. Boring. And then I started to see things I hadn’t noticed, like the details of the leaves, and the straps of the sandals. And I thought about how long it must have taken to sculpt, and to build up the skill to sculpt something like it, so I looked up Bernini.”

“Youlooked up Bernini,” I repeat, disbelieving. “After you mademehave a Bernini jar.”

“I know! But I looked him up, and he started sculpting whenhe was eight. Eight! He drew a little and did some architecture, but it was sculpting that he devoted his entire life to, until he was eighty-one years old. And then I thought about Gaudí with Sagrada Familia. And I started thinking about having a thing that you throw your entire self behind, and about my sisters, and my parents, and how they’ve always had that, and they’ve never questioned it and always succeeded at it. And I was like, what’s my thing?”

A waiter drops off our wine, a red Theo chose. They present the bottle to Theo and let them taste. Theo approves, so they pour.

“You were saying,” I prompt when the waiter is gone. “Your thing.”

“Right, so, first it was being the oldest child, and I mean, obviously I spectacularly failed at that.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Did you?”

“Come on,” Theo says with a roll of their eyes. “Sloane is everything the oldest should be. Brave, dependable—”

“Protector, leader, setter of examples?” I suggest. “I distinctly remember you being all of those things for at least one person. Me.”

“Maybe so,” Theo says, coloring faintly. “Or—yeah, I guess I was. But still.It was— Ifailed at being the firstborn Flowerday. I wasn’t needed. I didn’t have the family gifts. That’s what I mean.”

“Okay,” I say, still unhappy with this characterization but curious to see where Theo is going. “I understand what you’re saying.”

“And so for a while my thing was house parties, and we all know how that went, and then it was swimming, and that was supposed to be the big one, so I went too hard and fucked my body up and lost that too. And after that, I think I got scared, and so I started putting a little bit of myself into a lot of things instead of all of myself into one thing. Like if I’m always just starting something, I can always be in that beginning stage when it’s shiny and new and full of possibility, and if I never try to finish, I neverget to the part where I fuck it up.”

In all the years I wished for Theo to commit to being happy, I never thought to consider it this way, but it makes sense.

---