Page 113 of The Pairing

“So,” I say, “where does this leave you?”

They sip, and they consider.

“Ask me a different question,” they say. “Ask me what you asked me yesterday.”

I lean back in my chair.

“Theo,” I say. “What do you want?”

“I think what I want most of all,” Theo says, “is. . .peace.”

“Peace,” I repeat slowly.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever let myself have peace. I thought staying in one place my whole life would do it, but maybe I won’t know peace until I choose one thing I want to do and put everything I have behind it and see it through. Even if I fuck it up beyond repair, even if I embarrass myself and my family and have to go live off the grid on Calum’s shark-research boat. At least I’ll finally know how it goes.”

I want to take Theo’s hand and tell them how long I’ve waited for them to decide this for themself. To believe in it. Instead, I satisfy myself with imagining leaving my life in Paris, chasing whatever dream Theo chooses. I picture myself balancing the budget for Theo’s bus bar, or kissing Theo’s hair while they make study cards for the master sommelier exam, or replacing the new pastry chef at Timo that Theo doesn’t like. I could be happy there, as long as Theo wanted me with them.

I ask, “Do you want to know what I think?”

“Yes.”

“I think you deserve peace. And you can do whatever it is you decide.” I take a sip and add, “And you should have let me talk about Bernini more.”

Theo laughs. “I guess so.”

“And for what it’s worth,” I go on, “whatever you choose, you don’t have to do it alone.”

Theo absorbs this, then leans closer.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” they say. “I thought you went to pastry school so you could open your own place. You were going for the diploma in culinary management too, right? Why are you working in someone else’s kitchen?”

The question catches me by surprise; I have to take a beat to think of an answer.

“I changed my mind,” I say.

“Why?”

“I met other pâtissiers in Paris,” I explain as simply as I can. “I saw what it was like, trying to start something from nothing in a city like that, and I realized you were right. Fairflower was a fantasy.”

Theo’s expression softens, something strangely sad playing around their eyes.

“A nice one, though, wasn’t it?” they say. “Do you still think about it?”

“Of course.”

“I do too,” they say. “Sometimes, I wonder if—”

They break off, their gaze flicking past me.

“Oh, whoa.”

“What?”

“That guy over there,” they say. “For a second I thought that was your dad.”

I look over my shoulder, scanning the tables outside the next bar until I see the man Theo must be talking about: sixty-something with a scruffy beard and a vague resemblance to Victor Garber, writing in a notebook with an expensive-looking fountain pen.

“Oh, huh. He does look like him, doesn’t he?”

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