He turns and smiles at me. “Oh, I haven’t given up on them, I just have new fantasies now.” This time, it’s my turn to blush, remembering the fantasies we shared last night over what our honeymoon might’ve been like. “Here,” he says, spooning some of the whipped cream in his bowl. “Is it whipped enough?”
He almost feeds me a taste, but it’s like he remembers we aren’t actually together, and instead holds out the spoon for me to feed myself. It’s sweet and effortless, and I nod, not trusting myself to say more without accidentally groaning in pleasure.
I feel my lips part, and as they do, Jamie’s gaze dips to my mouth. He clears his throat and takes a step backward, placing the bowl of whipped cream on the counter and heating up a pan of butter.
The butter has taken on a slightly brown color, and a gentle nutty smell rises from the pan. There’s a soft sizzle when he pours on perfect circles of batter. When we lived together, Jamie did most of the cooking. He enjoyed it and was much more skilled than me—plus, I find washing dishes soothing, so our division of labor worked out well. The meals he made were always delicious, but sometimes I felt like I was in a Noma incubator. There’s only so much fermentation a girl can take. Once, we’d had rutabaga in every meal for a whole week until I finally revolted and ordered a meat-lovers pizza with extra jalapeños from Abbot’s.
Jamie flips the pancakes, and the now-exposed sides are aperfect golden brown. For a moment, neither of us says anything. The soft sizzling from the pan is the only sound. Staring at the strong curve of his shoulders and back, the way his hair curls up softly at the edges near the collar of his shirt. It’s familiar and strange all at once. It’s my Jamie, but it’s not. He’s the same, but different. On the snorkel boat, Jamie said that a lot can change in a year. But some things have only grown more apparent, like the way Jamie always seems to take care of me—in both the big ways, like following me into the ocean, and the quieter ones, like making me breakfast.
I think of what Emma and Finn said on the phone this morning. That compatibility was never our issue, it was communication. Maybe they’re right.
I need to tell him the truth—I know I do.
But as I stare at the curve of his back while he works on our breakfast, it just feels so good to be in his presence, I find myself biting my tongue. Afraid to shatter the moment.
I just want to feel taken care of by him. Like I did from the very beginning.
IT HAD ONLY BEENa few months of me and Jamie hanging out when he invited me out to Tahoe with his college buddies for a Friendsgiving dinner. He’d heard that I was staying in California for Thanksgiving, with no plans besides watching the Westminster dog show and eating a whole jar of cornichons by myself, and insisted I join him instead. I said yes, of course—I had a huge crush on him by that point, even though we weren’t actually dating yet. And it seemed like he liked me.I just couldn’t tell in what way, yet. For years, I’d been so used to guys being nice to me because they wanted to sleep with me. But Jamie was nice to me because he was really nice toeveryone.
When we arrived at the house, Jamie immediately began to prep the meal, shooing the rest of us out of the kitchen. Normally, I had no problem being around new people, but I felt a twinge of nervousness as I settled onto the couch in the living room with his friends. They passed around a bottle of wine from the Kauffmans’ vineyard and told me how glad they were that I was here. Though I couldn’t help but notice that no one was explicitly statingin what capacityI had been invited. Was I just the pathetic friend Jamie took pity on? Or someone with whom he hoped to becomemorethan friends?
“You’re good for him,” Vittal said thoughtfully as we sat in front of the crackling fire he’d built in the lodge’s massive stone fireplace.
“I am?” My face flushed with embarrassment, but I was also pleased. Vittal was one of Jamie’s oldest friends, and I knew how much his good opinion mattered.
“When he’s with you, he’s… lighter,” Vittal said softly.
“You pull him out of his shell,” Chris added.
“We all know our Jamie boy can be a little shy and awkward,” Mike chimed in, and his wife, Shannon, elbowed his ribs. “What! He can! But he is also tall, handsome, and a scratch golfer. So of course Sybil likes him. What’s not to like? To Jamie!”
It was their endorsement that made me confident enough to tell Jamie how I really felt. We were standing on the deck overlooking the lake, Jamie looking so handsome and earnesttelling me about how he was on the crew team in high school, when suddenly something clicked in my chest. It was like the safety latch on our relationship had finally disengaged.
“Jamie, I have to be honest with you. This trip has been amazing, but it’s also kind of been torture for me.”
“What? Why?” he said, turning to me in concern.
A combination of lust, confusion, and exasperation threatened to overwhelm me. “Isn’t it obvious? Ilikeyou! But I can’t get a read on your feelings at all!”
A smile played slowly across his lips. “I’m sorry for not communicating how I felt sooner.”
“Which is?”Please don’t be laughing at me, I silently prayed.
“I knew you’d just gotten out of something serious. I had too. I just didn’t want to move too fast.”
“And now?” I asked.
“Now I definitely do,” he said, his voice low and full. And then he pulled me toward him and kissed me.
FLASHES OF WHAT HAPPENEDafter that first kiss are making my whole body sweat with pleasurable memories, and I have to do something to refocus on the present or risk hyperventilating in the resort kitchen.
For his part, Jamie is fully focused on the pancakes, checking the doneness once again, thankfully oblivious to what I’m going through. But as I come back to the moment, all those butterfly feelings of when we first met start to flutter away, and I feel lost again, wondering what went so wrong—or if it had always been doomed from the start. Just another “fantasy.”
But just like that night in Tahoe, I can’t bear to not know anymore.
“Um, Jamie?” I take a breath. “There’s something I have to tell you. About our wedding weekend…”
He stills, the hand holding the spatula freezing in midair. Then he turns away from the stove and folds his arms protectively across his chest.
