Page 162 of Fake As Puck
“The opposite of regrets.”
“What’s the opposite of regrets?”
“Certainty. Like, bone-deep certainty that this is exactly what I’m supposed to be doing.”
“Good. Because I’m pretty sure I would have died if you didn’t move in soon. Like really would have.”
I kiss his hand wrapped around me as we stare at our things mixed together.
He kisses the top of my head, and I feel something settle in my chest. Something that feels like peace.
By evening, the U-Haul is returned, and my car is in his driveway next to his and we’re standing in the kitchen trying to figure out what to make for dinner.
“I have pasta,” he says, opening cabinets. “And... some kind of sauce.”
“That’s not how cooking works.”
“That’s exactly how cooking works.”
“West, you can’t just throw pasta and sauce together and call it a meal.”
“Watch me.”
I grab the ingredients from his hands and start actually cooking, adding garlic and herbs and vegetables like a person who understands that food should taste good.
“This is why I needed you to move in,” he says, watching me dice onions. “So I could eat actual food instead of protein bars and takeout.”
“Is that the only reason?”
“No. But it’s a good reason.”
“What are the other reasons?”
“So I could wake up next to you every morning. So I could come home to you every night. So I could stop feeling like half of myself was missing.”
“That’s very romantic.”
“I’m a romantic guy.”
“You’re a hockey player.”
“I’m a romantic hockey player.”
“That’s a rare breed.”
“I’m a rare guy.”
“You are.”
He turns on music while I cook, something soft and jazzy that makes the kitchen feel like a restaurant. When he pulls me away from the stove to dance, I let him, even though the onions are going to burn.
“The food—” I start.
“The food can wait.”
“It’ll burn.”
“Let it burn.”
