Page 89 of The Bright Side of Brooding
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Nick
I never realized how much I could enjoy a room full of people as long as you’re one of the people in the room.
After cleaning up and eating to my heart’s content on Friday night, then paying penance with Butter since he didn’t appreciate not seeing me at least every once in a while despite the pet sitter’s faithfulness, I slept in Saturday.
Until seven.
After going to bed at eight the night before, I didn’t need more than that. Fortunately, I had several training sessions planned for late morning, so after some quiet time reading and sipping hot, properly brewed coffee, I kicked into gear.
All the while, I avoided thinking about Summer. Just like I’d done during the rotation. I could’ve come home more than I did—I usually made it back every few days to shower and eat something substantial and hot. But I didn’t have it in me to be near her and not wonder about her or glance toward her house and notice if her lights were on.
When I did get reception, having a message from her came as a huge relief. I hadn’t realized how much of my unconscious had been wrapped around that. Not that it should have surprised me, but I’d deluded myself into thinking I’d left the ball in her court and I’d deal with whatever happened as though it wouldn’t wreck me if she decided to walk away.
Her triumph at the swap yesterday had made me happy for her. Genuinely happy. I hoped it signaled something new for her—the ability to ask for help and the ability to trust those whom she had asked.
Did it bother me she hadn’t asked me? I wished I were the kind of man who could say no, it didn’t. But I couldn’t avoid the feeling that she might trust her friends or colleagues, but trustingmewas a different level. And beyond simply assisting with hauling stuff to a drop site or whatever it might be, trusting me in a romantic, intimate relationshipwasdifferent.
The training sessions Saturday kept me from focusing too much on her. The evening proved to be fraught with all kinds of useless longing and curiosity and a fine edge of desperation that then turned into me sipping Scotch and reminiscing about the first time Gran poured me a drink, then laughed when I sputtered and coughed at the first sip.
Mercifully, the loss that’d been etched so deeply into my heart didn’t burn like it often had. Time had passed, yes, but I couldn’t ignore that hope for a future with someone pressed into me and muted some of that grief. I prayed it might work with Summer, but if all she’d given me was the hope of havingsomeone, of not being entirely alone for the rest of my life? I’d be thankful for that until the end. Those resigned, morose thoughts accompanied me to bed.
By Sunday at just before six, I’d dressed in a navy-and-gray plaid shirt and jeans, ready to be social. Or as ready as I ever managed to be. Seeing Summer at her home when she was surrounded by strangers and having to sit at a table and watch her interact with them when all I wanted to do was be alone would be challenging to say the least. I’d done whatever I could to mentally prepare, but by four this afternoon, all I could do was pace and give my meal prep for the week half effort.
The cool April air was scented with early spring blooms, but the heady tag of garlic and sesame wafted out of the open door. My stomach clenched with hunger and anticipation.
Thatcher Wild shook my hand as we entered Summer’s house.
“Good to see you, man. Rob said you put him through the wringer yesterday and today.”
His girlfriend, Bec Jones, preceded him through the door, and I followed behind both of them.
“He did well.”
Thatcher and I chatted back and forth as he took Bec’s coat and hung it, then ushered her in. They’d both been here before, so they knew the drill. I prepared myself to peruse her cookbooks again, when Summer peeked out the kitchen and said, “Nick, can you come help me?”
My heart jumped into my throat at the sound of her voice, at those words. I looked around, wondering if there might be another Nick somewhere I hadn’t met. She’d disappeared back into the kitchen before I could do much more than gape, so I hustled to reach her.
Inside the kitchen, steam rose from a pan, but everything else sat on platters. How she managed to time everything so it came out so perfectly at once amazed me.
“You wanted help?” I asked, though my voice came out more like a croak.
Her bright eyes sparkled at me. She nudged something around the sauté pan with a wooden spoon without looking and said, “Yes. Please.”
My throat tightened. Maybe I hadn’t slept as well as I thought. Maybe I was more of a lost cause for this woman than I realized. Either way, I stepped forward, willing and ready for whatever she might need.
“Say the word.”
“Can you just keep these moving for one more minute? My phone will chime when it’s done. Just don’t stop stirring, pull the pan, and scrape them into this.” She pointed to a small glass bowl to the left of the stove’s eye.
I nodded and took over, savoring the fleeting brush of our fingers when taking the spoon’s handle from her. She bustled around, somehow everywhere in the kitchen. When the alarm went off, I lifted the pan and scraped what looked like breadcrumbs, garlic, and maybe chili flakes into the designated bowl.
“Can you help me take everything in?”
I whipped around to find her holding a tray of soup bowls with steam rising between us.
“My pleasure,” I said, like this wasn’t completely new. Like her asking for my help in the kitchen wasn’t historically unheard of for a feast night, and certainly for our relationship.
