Amy sings in the shower as I crack an egg into the pan, the sizzle and the smell a warm comfort. Her laptop sits open on the counter, the schedule for Amy & May’s fills the screen because she was working on it late last night before I was able to convince her to come to bed. She exits the bathroom already dressed in sweats and a T-shirt, her hair wet and curling.

“Smells good,” she sings as she spritzes plants and cuts dead leaves.

“So do you,” I say, the smell of her peach shampoo wafting from the open bathroom door.

“What are we having for breakfast?”

Before I can answer, the music on my phone cuts out and starts ringing with a call from Paul.

“Good morning,” I say, accepting the video call.

“Hello, darling.” Camilla’s face fills the screen and so does her laughter as Paul’s hand pushes her face away.

“Excuse me,” he grumbles, pretending to be annoyed by his fiancée.

“How’s Paris?” I bring the phone with me as I flip my egg. Amy likes her eggs sunny-side up but I’m over easy.

“Terrible,” he says dryly. “Have you given any more thought to our offer?”

“Hi, Paul.” Amy props her chin on my shoulder, stealing my coffee mug from me and grinning at the phone.

“Hi, Amy. So?” he says, ever impatient. “Tell me you’ve thought about it at least?”

On the screen, Amy looks at me. “Well,” I say, drawing out the word.

He sighs. “You got Camilla’s stamp of approval on the show,” he says, as if this should convince us.

“Her approval was more because of a grudging respect and not because she was or is a fan of poutine,” I counter.

“I do not love cheese curds,” she protests from somewhere off screen.

“But it all worked out in the end, right?” he says, trying to sound charming. Paul is technically right. They used clips of us kissing in the kitchen—with our permission—as part of the teasers for ads and social media promotion, drawing tons of attention to the restaurant, especially among the queer community in Boston. That, combined with our new seafood poutine, has made Amy & May’s busier than it’s ever been.

But before that, it wasn’t Cooking for Camilla that got us through. It was us. I took a pay cut and it was hard for a while. It will be hard for a while longer, but when we do it together it doesn’t feel that way, like work. It feels like the perfect recipe.

“It did. It’s not that.”

Amy pops the sourdough out of the toaster oven, slathering on butter, layering lettuce, tomato, and strips of bacon.

I bite my lip, unsure of how to say it. But Amy takes care of it for me. “It’s not us, Paul,” she says. “It’s you.” She winks to soften the blow.

I flip the eggs onto our sandwiches and she tops them with the other slab of toast.