Page 78 of Hard Rock Muse
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Frank insisted I take home a couple vinyl records and refused to let me pay for them.
“Thanks, Frank,” I told him. “You know me, always adding to my collection.”
“Feel free to take whichever ones you want,” he told me.
“It doesn’t matter to me,” I told him. “I’ll take anything.”
“You go ahead and pick,” Frank said. “I want you to have something you’ll like.”
“I’m okay with whatever,” I said.
Frank pursed his lips.
“Whatever happened to that mouthy kid who gave me the stink-eye whenever I told her what to listen to?” he asked.
“I’ve mellowed out,” I said, growing uncomfortable. “Just give me something you’ve got extras of.”
Frank grumbled but handed me three vinyl records, all from newer bands I’d only vaguely heard of.
“All these new kids nowadays releasing in vinyl…” Frank shook his head. “I don’t know what’s with that, but it sure keeps me in business.”
After packing up the records and waving goodbye to Frank, Julian suggested we go to his place and play them while we made dinner together.
It sounded so domestic.
It sounded just like old times.
I was a little surprised to find Julian had gone shopping for actual, real groceries. He even had fresh fruits and vegetables in the fridge.
“I am both pleased and astonished,” I told him as I looked over his kitchen, inspecting the fridge crisper and pantry.
“I had planned on inviting you over to make dinner together,” he said. “I didn’t want to make you eat toast and cheese and I thought it would be nice if we ate something other than take out.”
I went over to him and put my arms around his neck, touching our noses together.
“You know I’ll eat anything you make me,” I said.
“That’s the problem,” he muttered quietly with a small frown.
I tilted my head, not sure I’d heard right. “What?”
“Nothing.” He shook his head and pressed a kiss to my forehead. “I just wanted to do something nice together.”
He let go and went to the kitchen to take out some pots and pans. I followed behind.
“So what’s on the menu?” I asked.
“Italian.” He grabbed a handful of fresh basil leaves from the fridge. “I know you love pasta so I’ve got the ingredients for a pesto dish.”
Pesto wasn’t Julian’s favorite, but he knew how much I enjoyed it. He’d always done things like this, putting me ahead of himself.
I didn’t know how I could have ever doubted his feelings for me.
“Is that fresh basil?” I asked. “Please tell me I don’t have to crush it by hand. That’s a step beyond just a home-cooked meal.”
“I can do that part,” he said. “I’ll chop up the ingredients and use the food processor. You can keep an eye on the pasta.”
