Page 54 of Give & Take

Lana

After The Talk, we fall into a routine, and the next few days go by uneventfully.

Disappointingly uneventfully.

Each morning, Raphael shows up big and smiling for the kids and gives me a pleasant good morning as I tie up my laces ready to head for work. The girls talk to him about what they did the night before and their plans for the day, and I find myself making excuses to stick around just a little bit longer. I tell myself it’s because I have FOMO—they get to spend the day together having fun while I’m off to work. But that’s not all of it. I find myself hoping Raphael will crack. That he’ll make an offhand comment about me like he did that first week, something I can roll around on my tongue as I’m serving eggs and hash browns to tourists.

“I’ve never seen someone look so pretty wearing neon orange.”

“You tell me if anyone looks at you sideways. Want us to hang out outside all day? We will.”

Every time I walk by the bar at work I replay what he said in my kitchen.

“I have exceptional self-control.”

“Oh really? I haven’t exactly seen that.”

“Yes you have, Lana.”

Every time I repeat it the words land like a thud in my stomach. What has he been controlling, exactly?

All week I found myself hanging out in the kitchen every night after the kids were in bed, working on my book. It’s a ridiculous thing, borne out of an argument with Mike years ago about my love for romance books. I’ve been chipping away at it ever since, writing and rewriting whole sections, then scrapping the whole thing and starting over almost every time I read another of my favorite series of duke books. At this point, I don’t think I’ll ever finish it. But I keep going, because I hate thinking Mike will have won if I give up. And because in some ways, working on it feels therapeutic the same way reading does. The idea of women experiencing love on their terms fuels me. As cynical as I am about so many things, I’m convinced well-loved people can change the world. It’s why I don’t shy away from showering it on my girls, just like my mom did for me. Just like some silly naïve part of me hasn’t given up on finding love of my own, even if it’s in the pages of this book. I know I’m not destined to become an author—I don’t think that’s even what I really want. But putting love out there—and creating output of some kind—feels good, so I keep doing it.

Raphael came in once this week to do his laundry. It’s the only thing he comes in for after hours, since his suitehas a little kitchenette. He gave me a polite smile, said hello, then did his thing. He didn’t give me long enough to make small talk. He didn’t ask what I was doing. And I just sat there, heart pounding, remembering how he looked sitting across from me. I typed nonsense words while I peered over the top of my laptop, waiting for a glimpse of him, just to see the way the curl of his hair falls against his collar. Worst of all was the last little smile he gave me over his shoulder as he reached for the front door to leave me alone again. I felt that one in my knees.

After he left last night, I found myself imagining him walking around in my house like he lives here. Then I reminded myself what I told him. Just over a month from now, summer will be over and he’ll be gone.

The thought makes me feel scraped out inside. Almost as much as when I try to fall asleep seeing the glow of his window through my curtains as I lie in bed. His suite over the garage is directly across from my bedroom, a fact I’ve tried very, very hard to forget. But each night as I go to bed, I leave my curtains open just a crack. Just enough to let the light from his window—the blinds always closed, thank God—to fall onto the empty space next to me on the bed. Each night I splay my fingers over the cotton of the bedsheets as if some cosmic piece of him is there.

It’s truly pathetic. Worrisome, given our situation. Probably prosecutable.

This morning I woke up with the absurd idea that I want to tell Raphael he’s taking our talk way too seriously. That I’m losing my mind and that he needs to loosen up.

Which is exactly what he would have toldmebefore I put my foot down.

I come downstairs early, before the kids wake up, checking the fridge. I always tell Raphael he can eat whatever he wants in the fridge. At first he didn’t eat much—I figured he was packing his own lunch from his place. He never touched the dinner leftovers I put into containers. But a week or so ago I put a sticky note on a sausage and sage pasta I was particularly proud of, saying “eat me”.

Maybe. But it worked—the eating part, anyway. That night when I got home, I found the sticky note was on the fridge with a little drooly face drawn under my words.

I only realized then how suggestive the note was. I felt my pulse skip. When I found the empty container in the drying rack, I couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed that he clearly meant the food. But that was quickly outweighed by pride. He’d clearly liked the food.

Mike always fancied himself a chef, and was sparse with his compliments. Mostly, he’d tried to outdo me in the kitchen. He was good, but not as good as he thought he was. I’ve loved experimenting over the past few years, mostly getting inspired by the menu at work. Mac’s an incredible chef, and Chris and I have insisted he show us how to make our favorites. But my kids would just as happily eat boxed macaroni as a homemade crispy pork belly ramen, and it’s always been too much work to try to make a big fancy meal for myself.

The next night, I left a container ofsteak fritesin the fridge, with instructions on the sticky note to air fry thefries to get them crispy again. The next, eggplant parmesan.

I’ve started casually asking the girls what kind of food Raph likes, and it takes them some thinking, but they’ve given me ideas.

I tell myself I’m not making food specifically for Raph—I need to eat, too.

Still, seeing that empty container in the rack gives me a little dopamine hit I’ve started to love when I come home each night.

It almost makes up for how polite Raphael is as he leaves. And how much I wish that five minute transition before he does would stretch out just a little bit longer.

But that empty container is nothing compared to the hit I get each morning when he walks in the door.

By the time I have everything prepped and ready for the day ahead, the girls are already awake but still in their PJs, finishing up the last of their Cheerios. I managed to squeeze in a shower and put on my new workout outfit before they got down here. The top is pale blue, and a little more revealing in the chest area than I’d normally choose. I swear I didn’t think of Raphael when I picked it up at the store on my lunch break the other day. I’m not trying to tempt him, not after I specifically told him to lay off.

Still, when the door opens, my stomach does an even bigger flip than it does every other morning.

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