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@sunshinecooks Still my favorite chef in the world #sunshineforever
@sunshinecooks Tomato Pie doesn’t know how to lie #apoetwhodidnt evenknowit
“So you and Ryan pulled it all the way back?” he said.
I held the flowers to my nose, breathed them in. “Looks that way.”
“Congratulations,” he said.
I heard the slight edge in his tone. Danny’s relationship to this—to all of this—was complicated. He didn’t like that there was a fake story behind A Little Sunshine, that there were lies he had to remember about where I came from, about how the show had started. Somewhere along the line, though, he thought that the lie had become the truth. I let him believe that many of the recipes Meredith had developed over the years were my recipes. I let him believe I was actually doing my job. I let him believe a lot of things.
Danny reached into the cabinet and pulled out a bottle of wine. “No one seems to be blogging about it anymore,” he said. “And I read that one of the Real Housewives got pregnant by another housewife’s husband. So that certainly is more exciting than who really came up with your sweet potato hash.”
I rolled my eyes, though I couldn’t help but smile at the effort—given how much I knew it must have pained Danny to look up that headline on TMZ. “So . . . how did Central Park West go?” I said.
Danny uncorked the wine, shrugged nonchalantly. “Pretty good.”
“What does that mean?” I said.
He smiled proudly. “I got the job,” he said.
I threw my arms around him. This wasn’t just another job. It was a game changer for Danny: a five-thousand-square-foot dream apartment overlooking the park. The type of project that not only ended up in Architectural Digest, it ended up on the cover.
“That’s so great!” I said.
“There is a small downside. The job starts right away. So . . .” His smile disappeared. “No Italy.”
Italy. We were supposed to spend July there—a long-overdue vacation as soon as A Little Sunshine wrapped. We’d eat linguine with clam sauce for every meal, great wine. We’d have proper time away together, to enjoy each other again. And to make the baby Danny desperately wanted. Time we apparently needed—the baby not coming on its own, not coming without a conscious attempt to try.
“So we’ll postpone,” I said.
“That’s okay?”
I waved him off, secretly happy to postpone the baby-making a little longer, and very happy it was his work that was causing us to cancel: Danny disappointing me, as opposed to the other way around.
“Are you sure?” he said.
“Ah, Italy’s terrible this time of year anyway.”
He laughed, his great laugh. It was kind and open, pulling me into the present moment, and toward him.
He clocked it. “Thank you.”
“I wish it was just the two of us tonight, though, so we could celebrate properly.”
He looked at me, probably hearing it in my voice—something close to the truth. “So let’s cancel the party.”
I laughed. “We can’t.”
“Sure we can. Fuck the fake surprise party. I’m serious. We’ll kick it old-style. Order in takeout? Dealer’s choice.”
I smiled. “Don’t tempt me.”
He moved in close, our faces practically touching. “Let me try and tempt you.”
He looked serious all of a sudden, a little too serious, hoping that I would agree to play hooky: the two of us camped out in front of the television with a little sushi, a terrible movie playing.
“If you don’t want the party, let’s forget it,” he said.
