Page 70 of How to Say I Do
And then rolled my eyes and hid my face inside the felt. What was Idoing?
No, don’t despair this quickly. I had a week. I had to pace myself with all that doom and gloom. I splashed water on my face and searched my reflection.Embrace every moment with him.
He was everywhere. The scent of him—his soap, his shampoo—hung in the air, and his toothbrush and razor lay on the counter. The door leading from the shared bathroom to his bedroom was open. I dithered, but seconds later, my curiosity beat out my qualms, and I drifted inside.
His bedroom was spartan: a queen bed, a dresser, a chair in the corner. Two pairs of boots sat by the footboard. His blue comforter was pulled up, and two pillows lay side by side.I hold it. I pretend it’s you.
A cluster of framed photos squatted on top of his dresser. These were family pictures. Liam, Savannah, and Jason; Jason as a baby; what looked like Jason’s current school photo. He was Trouble, with that wicked single dimple from his uncle and some sly humor in his eyes. He took after Wyatt for sure.
There were more Cancun photos, too, different from the ones I’d seen downstairs. There was a photo of the four of them, arm in arm and back-lit by the ocean. That was the afternoon we’d all lazed in the sun before I’d decided to throw away my caution, ignore the consequences, and fall for Wyatt. And then there was me.
It was so startling, so unexpected. I hadn’t been prepared to see myself in Wyatt’s home. I hadn’t been in any pictures the last time I was here. But there I was—reclined on the sand, my ankles lazily crossed, my hair salt-blown and wild. I was caught mid-laugh, my head tipped to one side, and I lookedextraordinarilyhappy.
I had been. I was blissful that day. A few hours after that photo, I’d kissed Wyatt for the first time.
When else had I been as carefree and joy-filled as I’d been with Wyatt? I couldn’t remember.
There was one more picture of me. Or, rather, of us. A selfie Wyatt had taken on Savannah’s phone, him and me mashed cheek to cheek with our arms hooked around each other’s necks. He looked huge and tan and strong, square-jawed and muscular, and his smile stretched so wide I could see his back teeth.
I brushed my fingertip across his smile.
Downstairs, Wyatt was elbow-deep in dinner prep. He’d laid out giant steaks and was salting and peppering both. Two colossal russet potatoes were ready to be wrapped in aluminum foil while he sliced up a mound of vegetables. I offered to help, but he redirected me to a fresh glass of wine.
"Do you know how to cook? It doesn’t seem like that kitchen of yours gets much, uh, use.”
The suspicious tone of his was unnecessary, I thought. “New Yorkers don’t need to cook. There are a million restaurants right at our doorsteps. Anyway, my place is just a temporary studio. I used to have a real kitchen.”
Wyatt started slicing very intently, very focused.
“I meant at my old place, on the Upper West Side.” Not Jenna’s. “I think it had one of those pre-war 1940’s stove things? It was antiquey looking.”
“So you used it?” Wyatt’s eyes were sparkling. His dimple was out.
I took a fortifying sip of wine and shot him a mildly affronted shrug. “I mean, yeah, of course.”
His smile grew.
“What? Like cooking ishard? You just follow a recipe.”
Wyatt laughed. I rolled my eyes and downed another gulp of wine. He kept gazing at me like I was adorable.
The steaks were apparently going to be grilled outside. He led me out back, and I perched on the porch railing and quizzed him oneverything: How hot was the grill? What was he doing with the potatoes? Why did he put the steaks on for only a few seconds and then pull them off again? He claimed he was doing a T-Rex Sear, which I protested was not atallreal and he was making it up. He challenged me to Google it, and, after I did, I told him that was aridiculousname because it’s not like we were eating Tyrannosaurus Rex steaks, and dinosaurs never grilled steak, so, whatever.
He taught me how to pull the steaks off when they were done—guiding me sweetly, his arms around me, his voice in my ear—and I got a kiss on my cheek when I did well and didn’t drop anything.
Dinner was smiles and laughs, candles lit on top of the picnic table, grape vines shushing on the summer breeze, pastel watercolors staining the twilight sky overhead. His boots trapped my foot between them, and he held my hand in both of his when we were done. I got exuberant praising him on the steaks and his grilling technique and his dinosaur sear. “If you tell me this is actually dinosaur, I’ll believe you. I’ve never had steak this good.”
“You’re lying.” His cheeks were as flushed as the wine we were drinking.
“I’m not!”
His dimple was out. He couldn’t stop smiling.
Candlelight flickered across his eyes. His boot curled behind my calf as he bit his lip. Stars peeked out over the roof. It felt just like Mexico, like the dinners we’d had, like that night we finger painted the night sky.
“I can do the dishes,” I offered, after we finished the last of the wine and rose from the picnic table. “It’s the least I can do.”
“New Yorkers know how to do dishes?”
