I text Ares about my plan.
–My Knight: Thai? If you’re in the mood, I know a couple great restaurants.
–Me: I’ve always wanted to learn. I’m probably not that terrible. Otherwise, there’s always takeout or delivery. Pepperoni pizza never fails.
–My Knight: I’m sure it’ll be fine. But don’t you need a wok?
–Me: I do? How do you know?
Does my husband cook Thai? Is there anything he can’t do? I was going to use one of the many frying pans in the kitchen.
–My Knight: Because Akiko makes a mean stir-fry. I’ll text and ask her to send you one of her woks. They’re already seasoned.
–Me: You’re the best.
I send the text, then look at it. It sounds so…affectionate. More personal than just a polite “thank you.” Something about it bugs me—I should be more careful not to appear clingy or cringey.
That evening I time it just right so my first ever pad Thai is ready to be served as Ares walks in. I think it tastes all right, tangy and sweet with some salt to balance everything out. Still, my palms grow clammy with nerves. I’ve never had Thai food before—just heard about it. It’s possible that what I created tastes okay, but isn’t all that authentic. What if he doesn’t like it?
My husband sniffs the air as he enters the kitchen with some vivid purple orchids and a brown bag that’s moist with whatever’s sweating inside. “Wow. Smells like Thailand.”
“Really?” I look up at him, all hopeful and relieved.
“Uh-huh.” He hands me the bouquet. I murmur my thanks, bury my face in the flowers and inhale the heady fragrance. “We just need some young coconuts.” He grins and pulls out two huge green coconuts from the bag and sets them on the table. Then he plucks the biggest blossom from the bouquet and tucks it behind my ear. His fingertips brush the sensitive skin of my earlobe, making my whole body tingle with awareness. “There. A pretty flower for my pretty wife.”
I flush. No matter how many times he calls me pretty, I can’t seem to get used to it. The word always makes my heart flutter, like I’m a teenager experiencing her first crush. Everyone says your first crush fades soon enough, but the sensation only seems to grow stronger. What if it never fades?
Stop getting ahead of yourself. Time to serve the meal and see what Ares says.
I plate the pad Thai—nowhere near as fancy as Akiko’s style, of course. But I think it’s okay. I then sprinkle crushed peanuts around the noodles—yum—and arrange a trio of fat shrimp so they look fancy sitting on top.
We look at the green coconuts. “How are we supposed to eat those?” I ask, certain Ares will know.
“You have to cut off the top.” He studies the round objects seriously. “I’ve never had to do it myself, though. The vendors always did it for me in Thailand.”
“You’ve been there?”
“A few times. It’s beautiful—soft sand and warm, gentle waves.” He gives me a smile. “If you want, we can go.”
“I do,” I say eagerly, until I remember he turned down the vacation I proposed on our way back from Vegas to celebrate our future divorce. But maybe he’s changed his mind. Or maybe he means we can stay friends and travel together at some point. I decide not to dig too deep in case it ruins the mood.
He takes the coconuts to the kitchen, then undoes his shirt cuffs and rolls up the sleeves. Thick, well-muscled forearms flex as he moves to take off a Patek Philippe watch. With casual elegance, he pulls out a huge butcher knife from the dark wooden block. The blade is spotless and so shiny, I don’t think anyone’s ever used it.
“We don’thaveto have the coconut,” I say tentatively from the other side of the counter. I don’t want him to get hurt. That knife isn’t just big—it looksverysharp.
He shoots me a look full of confidence. “Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.”
I merely smile, then watch as he brings it down once. Then again. And again. And again. The sound of the blade hitting the fruit is like a small tree getting chopped down. His brow furrowed in concentration, he shapes one side of the coconut, then sits it upright. A hard, horizontal strike, and the knife sticks into the hard shell.
I want to ask if the coconut is impossible to crack, but keep my mouth shut to avoid upsetting his ego. When I met Luciefor coffee last week, she said male pride is more fragile than a hothouse flower.
Her friend Yuna was there as well. “And not just any flower, but the kind that dies the second it doesn’t get the sun and water it feels entitled to.”
Incipient triumph gleams in Ares’s eyes. He wiggles the blade, still stuck in the shell. The tendons in his forearms stand out, the muscles flexing. His tongue swipes quickly over his lips.
Damn. Why is it so hot in here?The stove’s off, and the A/C’s working.
I pull the hair off the back of my neck and start fanning myself. Ares notices, and a sexy, arrogant smile tugs at his gorgeous mouth.
