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I prep while she talks, bouncing from topic to topic. She tells me about the latest thriller she read, how Jacques the French bulldog barked at a golden retriever and almost started a fight he couldn’t finish.
“I’ve never seen a golden retriever want to throw hands like that,” Shiloh says. “I was so stressed out in the moment, but looking back, it’s hilarious.”
Shiloh covers her mouth as she giggles and I laugh too, imagining the dogs beefing with each other, barking from across the street.
“I’m glad I have this dinner to distract me. It’s Bubba’s two-hundredth day in the shelter, and Koda got returned today. I’m just sad for my two best boys.”
“Oh no,” I say, turning a pork chop over in the pan. “Why?”
“It happens. Working Buddies tries their best to vet all potential adoptees, but sometimes we can’t predict what a potential adoptee would do. Koda needs lots of patience. I think the dog is grieving and therefore acting out.”
“Can dogs grieve?” I ask.
“Absolutely. It breaks my heart.” Shiloh sighs, taking a sip of her root beer. “I just want this dog to find his forever home so badly.”
“We tried,” I say. “I don’t think Dad is ready yet.”
“Losing a pet is hard.” She swallows, and I know she’s thinking about Rory.
“Are you going to get another dog?”
Shiloh shakes her head. “The apartment wouldn’t be fair to the dog. Though I would take Bubba in a second.”
I stop cooking to turn to her. “You love that dog so much. Do you know his backstory?”
She shakes her head. “We don’t know much about him, but he’s so cuddly. I feel like we recognized each other.”
“I hope he finds a good home then.”
“Me too.”
I crisp the green beans, adding some olive oil and salt and pepper, covering them to keep them warm. I steal a kiss, long and slow from her, her breath rapid when I pull away.
“It’s so nice that I get to do that.”
She leans forward to grab another kiss as we hear something sizzling at a rate it should not sizzle.
“Shit,” I say, rushing to the stove. Steam billows from the pan. I look in, to find the green beans a perfect green, soft, but crisp to the touch. I drain the water and set it back down on the stovetop. The pork chops are perfectly glazed, and I remove them from heat. The potatoes are a golden brown. “We’re almost ready.”
“I’ll set the table,” Shiloh says, walking past me, brushing against me, rubbing her ass against my front. I keep the groan in my mouth, thinking of all the possibilities later. She collects two plates and silverware, walking to my tiny bistro table against the wall. She sets it down and arranges it, tucking a napkin into each plate. I serve her, placing the food as perfectly as I can.
“This all looks so good,” Shiloh says. “Maybe you can teach me how to cook.”
“I could do that. I don’t know how to do much, but I’ve perfected pork chops.”
She cuts into the meat and takes her first bite. I hold my breath as she chews, and I expel it when her eyes widen in delight. “I’ve never had a pork chop this tender and…sorry to say, moist.”
I cringe at that word, and Shiloh covers her mouth to laugh.
She takes bites of the green beans and potatoes, humming in satisfaction. I could watch her eat for hours. She takes such pleasure in life, big and small. Making her happy or delighted makes me feel incredible.
We eat and talk about everything and nothing. I half-expected it to be awkward, since we were friends for so long before we became more. It’s the opposite—it feels like it was meant to evolve this way.
When she leans back, resting her arm on her stomach, I know I did my job properly.
“So,” she says.
“So.” I rest my own elbows on the table, my chin on my fists.
