Page 126 of The Pairing

“Jesus, it’s like a burrito.” They take their cannolo without having to ask which one is theirs, then notice the plate in myother hand. “What’s that?”

“I got you something else,” I say, showing them a small, domed cake coated in white icing and topped with a candied cherry.

Theo tilts their head. “Is it supposed to look like—” They glance up at the saint in the fountain, then whisper, “—a titty?”

“Yes, they’re called St. Agatha’s Breasts,” I say. “I saw them and knew you had to see it too.”

“I extremely do,” Theo says, taking it from me happily. “Oh, that reminds me. ..”

They report the status of the Calums-Dakota-Montana sex polygon, which is that every side has now been consummated except for Calum-on-Calum, but the sudden exhibition of Blond’s livesaving skills may be reigniting a nostalgic flame in Ginger. Montana and Dakota are doing their best to encourage this, because Montana is a completist. I listen with my mouth full of thick, sugary mascarpone and find myself rooting harder than ever for the Calums. Seems like a waste to never have sex with the person who pulled you from the mouth of a shark.

Over Theo’s shoulder, Ginger Calum swipes a bit of mascarpone from Blond’s chin with his thumb. I wonder if he’s spent his life the same way I have, finding small ways to look after the person who saved us when we were young. I hope he gets as much joy from it as I do.

“Incredible cannoli, by the way,” Theo says, chewing a bit of orange. “You’re so good at ordering for me.”

My eyes meet Theo’s. They must see the softness on my face, how sweet it tastes to be told I’ve taken good care of them. Pink blooms on their cheeks. This has always been the part they’ve been least willing to see, how caring for them is something Iwantto do and something they can allow themself to have.

They don’t turn away now. They lift their chin and hold my gaze. The moment falls over us like a net in the sea.

I’m going to say it as soon as I find the right words.I’m in love with you. I love every part of loving you, even the parts you don’tthink you deserve. You are the love of my life.

I begin to say, “I—”

Theo’s phone rings. It’s Sloane, and they’ve just started speaking to each other again, so Theo needs to take it.

“Of course,” I say. “Of course.”

The fourth time I almost tell Theo I love them, we’re under a vault of stars.

The Martorana is nearly a thousand years old, and it looks like a place out of time. It’s a physical record of the island’s history, with its Spanish Baroque facade and Romanesque bell tower grafted over the original Byzantine dome and radiating Islamic niches. Inside the basilica, golden Greek mosaics glitter from the floor to the vaulted ceilings.

I remember the night Theo drove us out into the desert and held me under the blackberry swirl of the Milky Way. They kissed me as deep as the sky, every point of skin contact as sharp and hot as a star. They showed me the galaxy, then made me feel it. That’s one of Theo’s natural gifts, the way beauty moves through them like stained glass. It illuminates them, and they transform it in kind.

They stand in this luminous church and look at the ceiling of the nave, which arcs upward into a heaven of deep blue tiles and blazing gold stars. Another galaxy for Theo.

What I want to say is,Do you know that you refract light?ButI love youcould be close if I said it right, hushed in reverence beneath a mosaic sky.

I step toward them.

A bell rings; the church is closing for the day.

The fifth time, we’ve just eaten one of the most interesting meals of our lives.

The first restaurant in Palermo with a Michelin star sits within the stone archways of what was once Antonello Gagini’s Renaissance sculpting studio. In a way, it’s still an artist’s workshop. Blood orange–glazed veal sweetbread with fennel confit, sea anemone with salted ricotta and sauce Choron—what was all that, if not art?

Throughout dinner, Theo made quick-and-dirty use of the wine list to win over the sommelier, jotting down notes and ideas on a napkin while carrying on conversation with the Swedes. They were in peak form, all chaos and intent, a rough touch and a smooth result. It reminded me that Timo hadn’t yet had their Michelin star when I left California. Theo helped them get it.

I remember what they said in Rome, how they still dream of Fairflower. I may not believe in it for me, but. . .for us? Some sweet future where Theo does their best things and I do mine, and we discover that in our years apart, we learned what we needed to actually do it?

Maybe it couldn’t have worked then, but maybe it could work now. I don’t know where, or when. But maybe when Theo believes in one thing and throws their whole weight behind it, anything can happen.

We’re in an alley beside the restaurant, and Theo is chatting easily with the bartender on his smoke break, and I’m looking on from down the sidewalk. Theo is just—Theo iscool.I’m so proud to know them, to have the privilege of being important to a person like them. I want to be by their side forever. I want to build something with them. Something new, something we could only make now. I want to invent it with them and trust them with it.

They return with a paper bag, which they offer to me.

“Seemed like this one was your favorite.”

Inside is a tiny to-go portion of the saffron panna cotta we had for dolci. I know what it meant when I did this for Theo in Paris, hoping to show them I was sorry for ever hurting them, that I still cared and wanted to make things right.

---