Page 82 of Honeyfires

"Brandon called me today," she said.

"Who—oh, Stevens. About what?"

"He wanted to know if the brown butter technique works for snickerdoodles and chocolate chip at the same time, or if you have to choose." She paused. "He's been thinking about it since the cookie afternoon."

"That was weeks ago."

"He's still kind of a kid, and I mean that in an endearing way." She stole a piece of lemon from the cutting board. "I told him you have to choose, but you can do two separate batches. He seemed moved by this information."

"Stevens has a lot of feelings about baked goods."

"Brandon has a lot of feelings about everything. That's what makes him Brandon." She ate the lemon piece and made a face, which made me laugh. "Miller texted me."

I turned around. "Miller texted you?"

"Yesterday. He found a vanilla extract from Oaxaca. Different ranch than the one he brought to the cookie afternoon. He wanted to know if I'd be interested in doing a comparison." She looked completely serene about this. "I said yes. We have a baking date on his next day off."

I stared at her. "Miller. Has a baking date. With you."

"He said—" She pulled out her phone and read: "Next Tuesday, if you're free. Bring your snickerdoodle recipe. Don't tell Alves, she'll make it weird."

A long silence.

"He told you specifically not to tell me? I'm gonna kill him."

She pocketed her phone. "I think it's sweet."

"He told you not to tell me."

"He also researched vanilla extract for me and carried your couch by himself. Miller contains multitudes." She hopped off the counter, came to stand beside me, and peered into the pan one more time. "Is it almost done?"

"Two minutes."

She slipped her hand into mine, standing beside me at the stove, and I looked at her—flour she didn't have on her cheek yet, food she hadn't made yet, a life that felt more like home every day—and thought I love you without the urgency of holding it back, which was the best thing about saying it out loud. It just sat there, easy and certain, not requiring anything from me except to feel it.

"I love you," I said, because I could.

"I love you too." She squeezed my hand. "Now plate the food before I do something that makes you burn it."

Sunday morning had the exquisite quality of early autumn light in the desert that made everything look like it had been developed in a darkroom by someone who knew exactly what they were doing.

I woke before Vera and extracted myself carefully from her arms. She slept like someone who had theories about the territorial sovereignty of the entire bed, and I found this charming rather than annoying, which told me everything.

Diagonal sleeper, she calls me. Woman takes up more of the bed than should be physically possible for a person of her size.

I made coffee and found Jane Eyre on top of my boots by the door.

She'd been suggesting it for two weeks. Leaving it in increasingly prominent locations. On my nightstand. On top of my boots. Once, balanced on the bathroom sink in a placement that could only be described as an aggressive recommendation.

I was three chapters in when she emerged from the bedroom in a tight t-shirt and tiny sleep shorts, hair spectacular, glasses on, looking at the book in my hands with the expression of someone watching a very rewarding prophecy come true.

"You're reading it," she said.

"You put it on my boots."

"I did." She came toward the couch, and I could tell she was trying not to visibly vibrate with delight. "And?"

"Rochester is extremely annoying."