Page 87 of There is No Devil

As Cole and I gather our bags from the hotel and head back to the airport, I think to myself that humans don’t learn things all on our own. Someone has to teach us. It might be necessary for someone to believe in us before we can believe in ourselves.

Unloved children are crippled because no one shows them the way.

Cole is so much more than a lover to me. He’s the teacher I never had. In some ways, the father I never had.

I blush, remembering what I called him last night when I was blitzed out and half asleep. I’ve never called anybody that word before.

I don’t want to be another fucked-up girl with daddy issues.

But god, it’s nice to have a daddy.

* * *

Returningto Seacliff feels like coming home. I run ahead of Cole into the house, practically skipping up the steps. Throwing open the doors and inhaling that familiar scent, increasingly mingled with my own shampoo, my perfume, and the old books Cole let me put on a shelf in the living room, even though the battered paperbacks clash with his hardcovers and leather-bound books.

I cook dinner for us both, delighting in using Cole’s heavy-bottomed copper pots and wooden spoons. Almost nothing in this house is made of plastic. Even the items Cole never uses are the finest quality, as much for decoration as for the formerly-unlikely chance that somebody would make real use of the kitchen.

Cole only cooks the simplest meals for himself. Still, he’s a keen student and watches carefully while I mix four egg yolks, freshly grated Parmesan cheese, and Italian herbs in a small bowl.

“That’s a lot of bacon,” he comments.

“If it’s not half bacon and peas, then it’s not carbonara,” I laugh.

“I think the Italians might disagree.”

“I’ll tell you a secret that will shock you … I don’t always like the most authentic food.”

“What do you mean?”

“I know this is sacrilege, but sometimes I like the American version better. We take all these foods from all over the world, amp it up, put it on steroids. San Francisco has the best food of anywhere, I’m convinced of it.”

“How would you know,” Cole laughs. “You’ve never been to Italy.”

“That’s true,” I admit.

I must look forlorn, because Cole quickly adds, “I’ll take you.”

“I wish,” I say, trying to laugh it off.

“I mean it.”

I hesitate, my throat tightening. I have a desperate desire to visit Europe and see the most stunning art and architecture of human creation.

But I shake my head.

“You’ve done too much for me already.”

“I’ve done exactly what I want to,” Cole says, his expression stern. “Don’t try to prevent me doing more of what I want. You should know by now it’s impossible.”

I never know how to deal with Cole. He really is relentless.

I change the subject, saying, “Look at this—you can use the hot pasta water to thaw the frozen peas.”

“Genius,” Cole says, with a small smile.

When I’ve stirred the sauce into the hot noodles, and divided the two portions onto our plates, Cole twirls the carbonara around his fork and takes an experimental bite.

“Well?” I say, bouncing in my seat.

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