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“You want to watch me play.”
I do, but I didn’t say that out loud!
What gave it away?
Is there like “desperate to be in your life” scribbled on my cheek in lipliner?!
Another chortle – this one victorious – escapes prior to him resuming his prep work. “What about your father’s side?” Tate reaches for meat products. “Are you close to them?”
“No.” A small adjustment in discomfort is made. “According to my grandparents they didn’t like my mom, and told my dad if he married her, they’d never acknowledge him again. And evidently, they didn’t. They didn’t even come to his funeral, which I guess makes sense if he was already dead to them so to speak.”
Bewilderment ceases all his movements as his eyes find mine. “I cannot image cutting off family like that.”
“People do it all the time.”
“They do…” His head sways back and forth for a moment. “But that’s not me. That’s not…who I am. Not being connected to family the way I am would be like trying to live without my legs or only one eye. Yes, it can be done, but I’m not going to be happy about it. I’m close to most of my kin in spite of there being so many miles between us. Phone calls and texts and emails and social media keeps us so active in each other’s lives sometimes it’s easy to forget that they can’t just meet me at the pub after work.” Fondness I’ve rarely experienced in this department darts into his stare. “We typically see my mom’s side a bit more since they’re here in the states, but we take family holidays back to Ireland every other year to see all of them. We stay for almost a month, and it’s never easy to get back on that plane.” An unexpected softness appears in his smile. “Would you go?”
Being blindsided by the question has me bluntly asking, “Go where?”
“Ireland.”
Surprise at the shift in subjects has my mouth moving yet no sounds forming.
“With me.”
Additional shock has my lips continuing to make movements that are not accompanied by noise.
“It’s a beautiful country.” Tate’s grin grows bashful rather than arrogant. “And I think you would be even more beautiful in it.”
Flopping my elbow onto the counter and my face into my own palm is followed by a mindless sigh, “When do we leave, babe?”
The light laughing, he presents has me immediately joining in.
For fucks sake, how am I this ga-ga over some guy? Especially already? Shouldn’t I be past this phase in my life? Shouldn’t I be onto the one where it doesn’t matter how good he looks or smells or fucks so much as how stable and willing to put down roots he is?
Or…maybe because I had all of that with Daniel already, I’m looking for something…different?
Does different have to be bad?
Does different have to be wrong?
Our conversation curves back to where it began, with cooking. He asks for fond memories of being in the kitchen and spewing the stories effortlessly occurs. The way he engages indicates to me everything isn’t just going in one ear and out the other, and that level of dedication to such a seemingly innocent conversation impresses me in the most unexpected ways. Having had dates that couldn’t remember my name and a marriage to a person who couldn’t recall my distaste for coconut, to have a man finally being interested in what I’m saying is incredible. Tate inquires about the reasoning behind certain dishes – like crawfish etouffee – being served so often in my household while completely connecting to others courtesy of the cultural conversations he had with his mother – such as traditionally serving sweet potato pie at Thanksgiving.
One topic freely flows into another to the same smooth stride he has working his way around the kitchen only stopping when full plates are being placed on the bar.
The instant mine is in front of me, heavenly smells overwhelm my senses, stirring two separate appetites I’m now equally anxious to satisfy.
“Breakfast has always been the biggest blend in my life,” he casually explains at the same time he hoists himself onto the stool beside me. “It was the one meal my parents learned to compromise on without compromising at all.” Amusement rapidly spreads across his face. “I swear whenever they both cook, I always feel like I’m at some sort of hangover buffet.”
Snickers slip loose prior to me waving a finger around my overpacked plate. “Give me a tour. Tell me what I’m about to put into my mouth.”
“Such filthy talk from such a sophisticated woman,” Tate teases on a wink.
The playful shoulder slap he should receive is swiftly caught and redirected into a kiss on the back of my hand.
Damn him for being good with his words and reflexes.
Our still connected fingers are lowed to my lap as he proceeds. “So, the fried eggs, salami, and pickled red onions are all from Tres golpes – the more traditional Dominican breakfast – while the sausage, grilled tomatoes, baked beans, and hash spuds are from a more Irish one. The toast with apple jam is more like the American bridge that links them together.”
