Page 19 of Befriending the Bear
“Most p-people get frustrated. Or they f-finish my sentences. Or they l-look away, like my st-stutter is contagious.”
“Most people are idiots. Besides, patience isn’t hard when the person’s worth waiting for.”
Heat crept up my neck. “You d-don’t know me well enough to?—”
“I know enough. I know you see beauty in small things. I know you understand loss, but haven’t let it make you bitter. I know you came here today even though it scared you because you’re kinder than you are frightened.”
I stared at him, this man who read me like a poem—carefully, finding meaning in the pauses as much as the words. “I d-don’t know what to do with you.”
His laugh was rueful. “Join the club. I don’t know what to do with me either.”
I sat there on his living room floor, surrounded by books and the comfort of being able to be myself, and I felt something I hadn’t felt in seven years: possibility. Not for romance. I wasn’t ready for that, might never be. But for this. For a friendship that didn’t require me to pretend I was fine. For someone who understood that healing wasn’t linear, that some days were harder than others, that the best you could do sometimes was show up.
“I should g-go,” I said eventually, though I made no move to stand. “It’s getting late.”
“You could stay for dinner. Nothing fancy. I was going to make pasta, and it’s easy enough to make for two.”
The domesticity of it terrified me. Cooking together, sharing a meal, extending this unexpected intimacy into something that felt dangerously like a date. But I was tired of letting fear make all my decisions. “I can h-help. I’m a d-decent cook.”
“Sounds good.”
And that’s what we did. He put me in charge of the salad while he handled the pasta, both of us moving around Fraser’s small kitchen with surprising ease. The kitchen was small enough that we kept brushing against each other, his hip against mine as he reached for the salt, my back pressing to his chest when I turned to get plates. When he reached around me for theolive oil, his breath ghosted across my neck, and my skin tingled. I forced myself to ignore it.
He told me about learning to cook in fire camps, making meals for twenty with limited supplies. I told him about Marcus’s experimental phase, when he’d tried to recreate ancient Roman recipes from Apicius, resulting in some truly questionable combinations.
“He p-put this f-f-fish sauce in everything,” I said, shaking my head at the memory. “He was so proud of b-being ‘historically accurate’ that I didn’t have the heart to t-tell him it was awful.”
Fraser laughed, a rich sound that filled the kitchen. “Did you eat it anyway?”
“Every b-bite.” I smiled despite the pang in my chest. “Love m-makes you do stupid things.”
“That it does.” He drained the pasta, steam rising between us. “I once ate an entire casserole made with canned tuna and crushed potato chips because David had spent all day making it as a special treat because I loved tuna. It was the most disgusting thing I’d ever eaten in my life.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes. I smiled through every bite and told him it was delicious.” Fraser’s expression was fond, nostalgic without being painful. “Despite having to work really hard to disguise that it almost made me throw up.”
We carried our plates to the table. God, I was actually hungry, my stomach rumbling. The pasta was simple with olive oil, garlic, lots of cheese, roasted tomatoes, and fresh herbs, but perfectly done. We ate in companionable silence for a while, the kind that didn’t need filling.
Fraser ate with obvious enjoyment, making little sounds of appreciation that did things to me I wasn’t ready to examine.When he licked a drop of sauce from his thumb, heat pooled in my belly, the kind I hadn’t felt in a long time.
I forced myself to look away. “This is n-nice.”
“It is.” Fraser twirled pasta on his fork. “I’ve missed this. Having someone to cook for. Eat with.”
The words could’ve been pressure, but they weren’t. They were truth, offered simply. I understood. I’d been eating alone for so long that I’d forgotten how food tasted better with company, how the ritual of sharing a meal could be its own form of communion.
“M-me too. Marcus loved dinner p-parties. Our apartment was always f-full of people. After he died, I couldn’t…” I paused, took a breath. “I couldn’t stand the n-n-noise. But the s-s-silence was worse.”
“The paradox of grief. You want everything to change and to stay how it was at the same time.”
We finished eating, and I insisted on helping with the dishes. Fraser washed while I dried, another domestic ritual that felt both foreign and familiar. Outside, full dark had fallen and rain pattered against the windows.
“I really should go,” I said as we finished, though every part of me wanted to stay in this warm, safe space.
“Let me drive you. It’s pouring out there.”
I almost refused since it was only a fifteen-minute walk, but the thought of arriving home soaked and cold made me nod. “Thank you.”
