The image is of me, not exactly smiling, but I know I’m happy, no matter what my face says. Because beside me is my Wai Po. Dash took this photo on our second visit, when the three of us went to the botanical gardens. Behind us is a colorful meadow I never would’ve thought to find in Delaware.
If I look at the picture much longer, I’m not sure what I’ll do. Since there’s a risk of tears, I flip the cover open.
Only to be slammed with another heart-aching memento.
One of my grandmother’s recipes.
“I’m sorry. I broke my promise. I touched them. But I swear I wore gloves, and I only took each one out for long enough to scan it and then put it back. They’re all safe and accounted for.”
“You made a recipe book?”
“I thought you could use this when you were cooking. So you wouldn’t have to worry about getting food on the originals. Or if you’d rather stick with the originals, you could have this as a backup.”
“The frames?”
“I thought if you liked the book, then maybe you’d frame the originals. That way, they’d be safe, and you could see them all the time.”
Six frames. For six recipes.
“You don’t have to say anything.” Charlie circulates between the stovetop and the table with jerky movements, not meeting my eyes as he does. “I know it’s a weird gift.”
“It is not weird.” My voice sounds stiff. Overly formal. Because if I let what I’m feeling out, I’ll start crying, and I hate crying. “It’s a good gift. A really good gift.”
My fake husband offers me one of his wildly handsome smiles, and I barely restrain myself from breaking the marriage rules and jumping him.
Charlie will make someone—not me—a very happy partner one day. I try not to dwell on how that causes a throbbing ache right in the center of my chest.
“So, food.” His voice grows gruff, and I watch his cheeks darken with a blush. “Hopefully, this doesn’t put me on a nutritionist hit list, but I made us mac and cheese.” Charlie opens up the oven, releasing a delicious herb scent. With oven-mitt-covered hands, he slides a skillet out and places the heavy pan on the stovetop. “There’s also green beans and a salad, so dinner is not entirely melted dairy.”
Damn him. He’s coming at me from all directions with his thoughtful gift and savory food. If the stuff tastes good, I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep my hands to myself.
“Another beer? Or wine?”
My fake husband moves around the kitchen with such purpose that no one could ever deny that he belongs there. Unfortunately, his competence has my thighs clenching.
“Wine.” I choke out the word, the only one I can manage in the face of this domesticity.
Charlie does everything for the dinner. Setting the table, serving the food, making sure I have a glass of wine and the bottle at hand. I can’t fathom why he’s putting forth all this effort. On a good day, I’m a mildly tolerable fake wife. But he’s acting like I’ve done something worthy of this care.
And I don’t get it.
“Just sit down,” I command when he jumps out of his chair again to move the salt and pepper closer. “You’re making me dizzy. I don’t need anything else.”
Except maybe a casket—because when I bite into Charlie’s mac and cheese, I’m sure I’ve died and found paradise.
“Oh, fuck yes,” I groan, my mouth full. I’m torn between chewing faster or letting this first bite linger for days.
“You like it?”
Charlie leans partway across the table, his eyes fixated on my mouth in a way that has me suddenly self-conscious about how I chew. Then I immediately get over that insecurity because who has time to judge themselves when there is more of this ambrosia to consume?
“So good,” I mumble through another mouthful.
For the next few minutes, all I focus on is consumption. I can’t bear to glance Charlie’s way again and find him staring at me with that same intensity.
Or worse, ignoring me in pursuit of his own delicious meal.
Something is wrong in my brain. At some point, a couple of wires got crossed, and now I’m too focused on how Charlie interacts with me. As if he’s integral to my well-being.
