“No,” I say. “You can’t apologize for that.” I leaven it with a smile. “I’ll still bring you coffee. I’ll just leave it on the porch like I used to.”

“I can make my own,” she protests.

I snicker. “No, you can’t.”

“Nathan.”

“Kidding. I mean, you can’t make coffee for shit, but I’m just teasing. And it’s fine. Take whatever time you need.” I let out a slow breath. “I’ll be around.”

“I know you will,” she says. “I just need to—”

I hold up a hand. “Explanations are as unnecessary as apologies.” I take the burden of ending the exchange on myself. “I’ll see you when you feel talking again. No worries.”

She wants to say more, but I go inside, because it’d just go around in circles.

Shit, I think I need to think, myself.

Heart Work

He brings me coffee in the morning. I leave him offerings of food in return—I’m relearning how to cook. I used to be good at it, used to love it. I used to cook on the weekends, when I wasn’t working. Every once in a while, Adrian would get a hankering for something in particular, and I’d oblige. But now, I’m cooking for me.

I make biscuits, the way Mom used to make them, light and flaky and buttery. Beef stew, with thick chunks of meat and big wedges of potato and slices of carrot. Chili, as taught to me by my college friend Tanner, who learned Tex-Mex chili from county fair cook-off winners. I even figure out the trick to my aunt’s bread, which took a whole day of try, try, try again until I got it just right. I bake pies and cakes, pain au chocolat from an internet recipe, which is nowhere near as good as it was in Paris, of course.

I make some for me, and some for him.

I told him I needed to think, but really, I’m just scared.

I like him.