Page 102 of Love Is an Art
“Okay.” I’m having fun. I like being with her. Maybe we can just be friends.
She grins at me, the whole smile lighting up her face, and I want to kiss her.Maybe not.
“Great,” she says. “I promise not to poison you. Do you have any allergies?”
“No.”
Drops of water fall. We both run to the subway entrance as the rain pelts down. Her upturned face glistens with water.
She taps her card and pushes through the turnstile. We jog down the steps to the platform. The next train is in five minutes.
“Do you mind if we read on the way home?” she asks. “I’m in a really good part, and I want to finish.”
“I’ll tell my dad that you chose to read his book over talking to me. It’s a compliment to him.”
She glances at me. “It’s also a compliment to you. I think one of the most important characteristics in a mate is that they give you the freedom to do your own thing. I see that with my parents. Of course, it’s great if you enjoy the same things. But if you don’t, and you each allow the other person to pursue their own interests, that helps to give a relationship breathing room. It definitely involves a bit of trust too—that that passion won’t take them away from you.”
I stare at her. There’s a lot to unpack in what she just said.Mate. What makes a relationship last. Pursuing passions. Trust.
I don’t even know where to begin.
“Don’t look so scared. I’m only saying it’s a compliment to you too.” She opens her book, her shoulder brushing mine, and ignores me, turning the page.
Fine. I pull my book out of my backpack. “Can we stop by my apartment on the way back and walk my dog?”
We decide we’ll stop by Tessa’s apartment, pick out some recipes, and then cook them at my place after food shopping. Then my dog, Brit, isn’t alone for the evening.
Tessa pulls out five cookbooks and lays them on her kitchen counter. Her kitchen is in a long hallway that connects the front living room with the back two bedrooms.
“What’s your preference? And what can I get you to drink? We have white wine, water …” She looks in the refrigerator. “And water.”
“Water is good.”
The cookbooks are definitely well loved, with wrinkled pages, recipes tabbed. I open them up, but I’m not someone who cooks anything beyond the basics.
“How do you have time to cook?” I ask.
“I usually only cook on the weekends. I find it kind of relaxing and yet productive. It takes my mind off work because I have to concentrate on the recipe. And I like feeding my friends.”
“What do you recommend? I’ll put myself in your hands.”
“Will you?” She tilts her head, exposing her neck. “Here’s your water. In my favorite mug.” She hands me a mug that says:I’m a lawyer Let's assume I'm always right.
I snort. “That’s pretty much the perfect gift for you.”
“Miranda gave it to me.” She flips through one cookbook. “Let’s try one new recipe and one tried-and-true recipe. Let’s prepare this braised fennel with radicchio and parmesan. That looks yummy, and then I can make a turkey meatball curry with leeks and rice. Can you make a list of the ingredients so we can go shopping?” She hands me a pad that was sitting next to the stove.
“Sure. But both recipes say they make enough for six.”
“Don’t worry. We love leftovers, and I can give some to my downstairs neighbors.” She leans close to me to read the recipe over my shoulder. I breathe in the apple scent of her shampoo. She moves away again and grabs an opened bottle of white wine and lemon juice out of the refrigerator and puts them in her backpack, along with some other stuff. I finish writing out the list of ingredients and read them aloud to her to confirm what we need to buy.
She grabs two Fresh Direct shopping bags, and we head outside. The sun peeking out casts a golden glaze over the buildings, although the street and trees are still slicked wet.
We walk down the brownstone-lined side street, and I’m very conscious of her presence. I want to hold her hand.
We’re friends.
I can’t date her.
