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“Dinner, please. I’m starved.”
He takes my hand and wraps it up in his then down the hallway we go, toward a messy little kitchen where it looks like he’s pulled out every ingredient in his possession to prepare dinner.
“I’m making us grilled salmon and twice-baked potatoes.”
“My mom has a good recipe for twice-baked potatoes.”
“Well we’ll have to meet and compare notes.”
“Do you want me to start clearing the dishes and tidying up while you finish?” I’m already moving toward the sink, where a cutting board is stacked alongside plates and knives and measuring cups. I’m a magnet for messes.
“You don’t have to—” he starts to say, but I’m already soaping up a scrub brush. It’s my pleasure, and he knows it.
By the time we’re sitting down at his table to eat, the kitchen is spick and span. The sink is empty. The countertops are sparkling. A candle I found in a cabinet is lit on the island. My anxiety is back to zero.
“I like cooking,” he tells me as we cut into our salmon.
“I don’t. I order in or make a salad most nights. But I’m happy to clean up.”
He nods, like it’s settled.
We’ll make a good team.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Noah and I play Wealthy Retirees for a few weeks in between returning from Rome and the start of the school year. We have no bedtime and no alarms set. We take long walks to get coffee in the mornings. We make a sourdough starter from scratch. We binge-watch Netflix and stay in our pajamas all day. We fall into a routine, and in that routine, our love grows like a little sapling.
The first night I stay at Noah’s, we don’t sleep a wink. We put his king-sized bed to good use. The next day, when I try to leave, he suggests I stay just one more night. We’d been talking about trying to recreate one of our favorite pasta dishes from Italy anyway. It didn’t make sense for me to go home.
Since then, I’ve been back to my apartment only a handful of times.
Noah suggests casually that I let my lease go in a few months when it’s time to renew, and that’s that.
But, there’s no getting around a tough task we have ahead of us. Now that school’s starting in a week and we’re due at Lindale for teacher in-service in the morning, Noah and I need to have a meeting with Principal O’Malley to update him about our relationship status.
We’ve reviewed Lindale’s HR policies and think we have most of our bases covered. When discussing our relationship, we’re going to keep things vague and leave out any extraneous details that could land us in hot water. Over Thai takeout the night before, we work through every possible scenario.
What if Principal O’Malley’s upset that our relationship started while we were on the school trip?
We’ll appeal to his emotional side. What couple wouldn’t fall for each other in the Eternal City?
What if he says we can’t stay in our classrooms side by side anymore?
We’ll chain ourselves to the chalkboards.
What if he threatens us with our jobs?
We’ll fight tooth and nail. We’ll never give up.
To the meeting on Monday, Noah brings Principal O’Malley some Italian roasted coffee beans, and I bring some of the chocolates I got at the farmer’s market in Rome. Noah didn’t like that, of course.
“Can’t we save those for ourselves and just buy him a Hershey’s bar on the way?”
“No. We need to butter him up. Haven’t you heard of bribery?”
When Principal O’Malley opens his door and ushers us inside, we immediately bestow the gifts and then I start in with our pre-approved compliments.
“Principal O’Malley! We’ve missed you! Have you been working out this summer?”
“Oh, a little here and there, I suppose. Bought one of those fancy watches that counts my steps.”
“I can really tell, and wow, that suit looks custom. Did you get it at Armani?”
“Kohl’s, off the rack,” he boasts.
Here’s where I start to go off script.
“Well the cut is just perfect on you. And navy? That’s definitely your color.”
Noah clears his throat, a clear sign to tone it down a bit.
But Principal O’Malley is eating it up. I’ve never seen him smile so wide.
“Take a seat, take a seat. I can’t say I’m surprised the two of you wanted to have this meeting. Rome must have been difficult, to say the least. So what is it this time? Who thinks who should be fired? Moved to the other side of the school? Docked pay?”
I laugh like he’s being utterly preposterous, when in reality, a few weeks ago I would have loved if Noah’s paycheck shrank to half its usual size. In fact, some dormant sliver of hatred for Noah salivates at the idea of him being relegated to the dingy hallway next to the loading dock where they keep the spare trashcans and cleaning chemicals.
