FOR ONE SECOND,in the excitement about agreeing on something, Ari sees a glimmer of why Natalie finds him attractive. His voice is so much more pleasant when he’s telling a story instead of arguing. And there’s something annoyingly hot about men with towels on their shoulders and rolled up sleeves.
“That’s pretty dark,” she says, staring at the ink slash. “No wonder Hallmark rebooted this concept as a Candace Cameron Bure rom-com.”
Josh’s expression darkens. He stands up straighter, making her feel shorter than five feet five. “Your soulmate gives you the greatest possible sense of belonging,” he says with genuine conviction. “They heal your existential wound. It’s the basis of modern love.”
Her brief flicker of interest in him must have been ninety percent towel-on-shoulder related. “You honestly think there’soneperson somewhere on this planet who can fulfill every single need you’ll ever have?”
“Yes. And eventually you’ll get sick of searching for your underwear at two in the morning!” His accent is poking through again. “You’ll start looking for the person who won’t bore you. Who makes sacrifices for you even when you don’t deserve it. Who you want to hold all night until your arm falls asleep. Who’s required by law to bring you matzo ball soup when you get a cold. No one with an eggplant emoji next to their name is ever going to care about you that way.” Ari stares at him, mouth open, slightly alarmed by the volume of his impromptu monologue. He focuses his gaze on a chip in the laminate countertop and clears his throat softly. “What?”
“You’re completely delusional.”
Josh’s phone vibrates across the kitchen counter.
Natalie:hey! So sorry.
Gonna be later than i thought
Just getting to manhattan
The voice in Josh’s head unleashes a burst of creative expletives. The cod is already poaching. The orangesauce viergewill be gelatinous in thirty minutes. By the time Natalie arrives, he’ll be a sweaty mess.
Sometimes in his therapy sessions, Josh’s emotions overtake his ability to answer questions like “what are you experiencing right now?” He can’t take a clearing breath or do a fucking leaves-on-the-stream exercise. At this point, his therapist will inevitably advise him to “anchor.” The idea is to focus on your physical surroundings: things you can touch, hear, smell. Forcing himself to be still and concentrate on the minutiae around him doesn’t exactly come easily.
Except in the kitchen.
In no other place are all the senses so tightly interwoven. There’s nothingbutthe present in the overpowering scent of rosemary or the gentle gurgle of water coming to a slow boil. The knife sliding easily through the flesh of a perfectly ripe pear.
So it’s lucky that he finds himself in front of a cutting board, holding a plump heirloom tomato for thepanzanellawhen Natalie’s text comes through.
What’s the alternative? Packing up his two hundred dollars’ worth of half-prepped produce, his cutting board, and Le Creuset and leaving the apartment in a huff?
He’s fucking trapped in this sweltering apartment.
“Something wrong?” Ari asks.
“No.” He rubs his forehead.Anchor.“She’s running late.”
Ari raises her eyebrows and nods slowly. “This is exactly the scenario I never have to deal with.” She turns away from him and opens the freezer, grabbing an ice cube tray. “If you weren’t so preoccupied with locking down a relationship you could justshrug it off and do something else with your evening instead of spiraling about it.”
“I’m not spiraling,” he insists, even as he feels his pulse quicken.
Ari grabs each end of the tray and violently twists until the cubes detach from their molds. “Sure, you’re not.”
Quit talking to her. Let it go. Don’t let her bait you. Anchor.
“How would you understand anything about a real relationship when you’re obviously incapable of forming a connection with someone other than the briefest possible sexual encounter?” he utters in one unbroken, comma-less string of words.
Ari narrows her eyes—almost pleased to have set him off.
“I’m not ‘incapable’ of anything,” she says, dropping the ice in her water glass. “I’mhonestwith people about what I expect. They can’t hurt me and I can’t disappoint them. We both get what we want.”
“If what you want is to fuck someone you don’t care about, roll over, put your clothes on, and see yourself out, you’re set for life.”
“Usually, we pretend to watch a movie first, but what difference does it make if I put my clothes back on ten minutes later or eight hours later?” She tilts her head back and takes four enormous gulps of water, as if the effort of the argument requires rehydration. The glass lands on the counter with athunk. “We could have the hottest, most inconsequential hypothetical sex of your life and then—”
“Wecould?”
“Hypothetically.” She huffs out an exhale. “I’d quietly collect my panties and steal away into the night without waking you up.”
