“Too weird?” he asked, frowning.

“No. I mean, yeah, I wasn’t really expecting it—”

“Me, either. It just slipped out—” he said apologetically.

“I actually liked it.”

“Yeah?” He grinned.

“Uh-huh.” I nodded.

He handed me the items, and I placed them on the cutting board.

“What are we having?” he asked.

“Spaghetti pomodoro. It’s either that or…nothing.”

“I love spaghetti. What can I do?”

“Can you julienne a carrot?” I only said it to alarm him. And it worked because he simply stared at me, almost afraid. I couldn’t help but smile. “Can you chop an onion?”

“Yes!” he said excitedly. “That, I know how to do.”

“Awesome. Get to it then. I’m going to start on the sauce.”

I poured olive oil into a red, heavy-bottomed pot I’d found and, within seconds, heard Ethan sniffling. “Do you have any bread around?” I asked.

“I think so.” Tears rolled down his face, and the lightest shade of pink took over the tip of his thin nose. “Over there.” He pointed at the edge of the counter.

I removed the lid of a wooden box that, thankfully, had a loaf of sliced bread inside it, took a slice, and tore a large piece from it.

“Here.” I showed him the piece of bread.

“I’m good, thanks, babe,” he said, by then, a crying mess.

“No, just—” I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Open up.” I held it up to his mouth.

“You keep saying that,” he joked but did as he was told, having absolutely no idea why.

“Don’t chew,” I said, before placing the chunk of bread between his teeth and letting half of it hang out of his mouth. “Just…trust me.”

After looking at me for a good minute, absolutely confused, he shrugged and returned to cutting the onion into small cubes.

“Huh,” I heard him mumble, not long after.

“No more tears, right?” I said, enjoying the surprised look on his face.

He raised his eyebrows and pointed at the bread, mumbling something unintelligible.

I chuckled. “I’ve no idea why it works, but it just does.”

He looked so surprised; it was adorable.

I scraped the onions into the pot, then cut up the tomatoes and a few carrots as he watched me attentively.

“Is there any red wine around?” I asked.

“Day drinking? Really, babe?”

“For the sauce.” I pointed at the pot.

“Oh,” he said, feigning relief. “Sure.”

He disappeared into the living room and came back a few minutes later holding an unopened bottle of Carménère.

“Will this one do?”

“Sure.” I took it from him, uncorked it, and poured it into the pot. “There. Now, we need to let it simmer.”

“For how long?”

“Forty minutes? Give or take.”

He looked at the stove and then at me. “Well…”

“What?”

“Remember when you told me you used to drink and get high all the time?” he asked, somewhat hesitantly.

“Yeah?”