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He looks like his usual gorgeous, boyish self with his light floppy hair and piercing blue eyes. He gives me a lopsided smile.
Handsome as ever in his business suit. It looks good on him.
“It’s almost ready,” I reply, pointing the wooden spoon toward him. “But no taste tests until I’m done.”
He holds up his hands in defense. “Would I do a thing like that?”
I give him a look. While we didn’t live together during our relationship, I have cooked for him before because I love cooking. I know he has a garbage gut and will eat anything, but I do at least want to make it taste good.
“What’s the occasion anyway?” he asks, peering over my shoulder into the pan as the aromas waft up at us.
I swallow the lump in my throat, with my back to him.Oh, nothing. I'm leaving for Stanford University in a week. Thanks for everything. See ya!
I don’t know why I feel so nervous about this. I guess I just feel like I owe him an explanation.
“Can’t a girl cook for an old friend just because?” I say, turning back to the sauce and turning off the gas. “You know, as my way of saying thank you for everything.”
“You thank me every time you see me,” he says, moving over to the kitchen bench to unscrew the bottle of red wine I have waiting with two glasses.
He swiftly pours us both a glass. “You’re looking much better, by the way.”
I smile. “I’m getting there.”
He passes me a wine glass and I take it gratefully, taking a sip before getting the plates ready on the countertop.
Even though this isn’t a date, it’s just me and Fynn, it feels nice.
“Would you like to eat here?” I add. “Or at the dining table?”
“Here’s good.” He looks over toward the stack of Stanford brochures and paperwork on the end of the bench.
Shit.
I forgot to clear all of that off before he came over. Obviously, I need to tell him tonight, but I didn’t intend on him seeing what I’m up to just yet.
Ignoring it, he pulls out my stool as he sits down on his, a contemplative look on his face.
I tip the pasta into a large ceramic bowl, placing it into the center of the bench, then I grab the crusty bread I cut up and buttered earlier and set that down too.
Sitting down, I take a mouthful, and just as I do, Fynn groans. “Oh,baby cakes, this is good.”
I smile. “Not as good as Nonna’s, but good enough.”
“Even Ma can’t cook like Nonna, so you’re fighting a losing battle there, but this is al dente.”
His words make me feel good. Like he always does.
“Listen, Fynn, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”
“Stanford?” he quizzes, giving me a side-eye.
My throat feels dry, and I know that I’ve been dreading doing this because I don’t know if I really am doing the right thing.
“Yes.” I say eventually, not looking at him. “I can transfer to California.”
I shuffle my pasta around before taking another bite.
He hasn’t picked up his fork yet. “When do you leave?”
