“I’m counting on that, Bailey. It is nice to celebrate with you.”

For the next few months, we were on a constant high. I moved on to other jobs. But at night, I returned to Elliott. The restaurant garnered countless good reviews. It got lots of attention, lots of traffic. The waiting list for a reservation grew. Ironically, I thought it might just be Elliott’s restaurant that turned our little neighborhood into the “up-and-coming SoHo.” We each were celebrated. Magazines came and did profiles on Elliott and his restaurant. I was always mentioned with my own culinary pedigree. We went to openings. We went to parties. We sipped the finest wine and champagne. We gave Uber a lot of business. These were heady times. But I had not yet returned to Elliott’s apartment. My feelings were still in a state of flux.

When we weren’t attending parties or grand openings, we were working. We both worked constantly. Success takes a lot of work. I had no idea just how much. Daddy, Henry, and Griffin all made it look easy. Elliott had become increasingly dependent on me. He would ask me to restock items I had originally ordered. I would leave my “day” jobs, the ones that were paying me, and then I would slip into the role of handler, counselor, problem-solver, or ego-booster to Elliott, who no longer paid me. I had never before been involved in the day-to-day operations of the restaurants I designed. It put a strain on me.

Elliott’s back pain never seemed to abate. It was possible I was just a little too unrealistic. I wanted our “first time” to be when we were both excited, not worn out, drunk, or in pain. But there were always little displays of Elliott’s love and affection. A lingering glance, an unexpected squeeze of my hand, a playful peck on the cheek as he passed by me, a gentle caress to chase away frowns that conveyed my worry, a single stolen kiss in the kitchen when we were alone, a loving shoulder massage. Sometimes he would just scoop me up into his arms and kiss me with a lovely reckless abandonment as if he couldn’t possibly stand it for one minute longer; other times he would pick me up and we would leave the restaurant altogether and walk hand in hand in the neighborhood we called our second home, stopping in stores to browse like a normal couple, letting the sunlight warm our faces. Elliott was patient with me, never pushing me for more. He literally wore my anger down.

Token gifts appeared, like scented candles and soaps, and more extravagant gifts, like a much-wished-for strand of beads with interesting stones from The Sleepy Anarchist with Elliott’s business card attached. On the back it read: “Always, E.” That was his customary way of signing anything to me now, even when we were ordering something mundane like arugula. One time, he left me a handsome gray box, and inside was a beautiful flower pin that looked like it had diamonds as petals and a beautiful pink stone for the center (which I would learn was a pink sapphire). It looked to me like vintage Van Cleef & Arpels. The card: