Page 51 of Falling for You Again

And all the while, I pretend to ignore the obvious: I miss Aaron.

We text, brief check-ins with status updates. He hasn’t heard anything further about the Savant House’s stance on the acquisition, but that doesn’t mean the company isn’t reevaluating their decision. Aaron has planted the seeds that the deal won’t reflect well internally.

Then there are his other texts: a picture of the ocean while he dines at Nobu in Malibu Beach, him asking for a photo of Blueberry. He misses my cat. I send him a picture of Blueberry snuggled in the crookof my neck while I work from bed. I just happen to be in the photo too. He follows up that text with a selfie, him toasting me good night. He’s at a business dinner in LA.

And the text on his last night away:I don’t think I’ve ever looked so forward to going home as I have on this trip.

Rough week?I reply, trying not to read into his text that he couldn’t wait to come home because he misses me as much as my cat.

Yes, but that’s not why.

I leave our conversation there and remind myself why I’m living here, why I need to stay focused. Any sort of relationship we have is because I’m trying to save Artisant Designs from being sold off. I’ve also learned from experience and observation that, like my parents and uncle, I’m incapable of dividing my attention, passion, and affection. And I already feel like I’m being split between the two: Aaron and my art.

But there’s a little voice inside me that’s convinced I can love both equally. She’s getting louder. And the thing that scares me? I’m starting to believe her. Because I don’t think he’d ever ask me to give up my craft, even if our marriage was real.

Friday night, I’m working at the kitchen table, adding final notes to my proposal, when Aaron returns. Once again, Blueberry, who is lounging on the table, batting at my pen, shoots through the house and up the stairs to his hiding spot under my bed when Aaron opens the door.

I hear him park his luggage and backpack in the foyer and walk toward the kitchen. He appears with his shirt askew and sleeves rolled to his elbows. His face looks drawn and he has dark circles under his eyes, shadows covering his jaw. He sees me and a slow smile replaces the exhaustion. He visibly relaxes.

“Hello.” I give him a little wave.

“Hi.”

He comes into the room, sees the empty place at the table, and asks, “What did you have for dinner?”

“Fettuccine in a wine sauce. Hungry? There’s extra.”

“Starving.”

“I’ll fix you a plate.” I pick up my dirty dish and put it in the sink.

“I got it,” Aaron offers. He turns to the stove.

“Let me,” I say, already getting a bowl from the cabinet. I want to do this for him.

He grabs a beer from the fridge while I scoop pasta. We turn at the same time and almost bump into each other. His bloodshot eyes startle me. He looks tired enough to make me think he’ll collapse from exhaustion before he finishes eating. He doesn’t move away, and my gaze drops to his mouth, then to his neck where his clavicles meet. His breathing deepens. I thrust the plate at him. “Here.”

He grabs it before the pasta spills onto his shirt. “This smells amazing.”

I mixed in fresh basil leaves, halved cherry tomatoes, garlic chunks, sliced olives, and marinated artichoke hearts. The tip of his tongue swipes across his bottom lip.

“So, uh ... how was the expo?” I return to my chair and he sits in the one across from me. “Any new trends?”

He shakes his head, shoveling in a bite of pasta. “Nothing worth mentioning. I was there mostly to negotiate bulk deals and renew relationships with some of our suppliers. Lots of bullshitting and handshaking.”

“I haven’t been to that show. I hope to go some year.”

“You should. Your work would blow away most of what I saw. What are you working on?” He nods at my laptop.

“My proposal to my uncle to buy him out.”

“How’s it going?”

“Mmm ... okay.” I wiggle my hand in an iffy gesture.

“Want to talk it out?”

“Promise not to steal my ideas?”

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