Page 90 of The Bright Side of Brooding
Seated around the table were all familiar faces. Just like the last time I’d attended. Then of course there was that one time Ididn’tattend, but maybe that was why the crowd tonight was composed of friendly faces. I delivered the tray to the sideboard, then distributed the bowls of what looked like a golden-brown broth with coin-thin slices of mushroom and scallions. Behind me, Summer walked with another tray, adding garlicky sesame chicken wontons to each person’s bowl, then sprinkling the breadcrumb mixture on top if they wanted.
“This smells so good. I’m not sure anything has ever smelled so good in my life,” Rob said, then wiggled his eyebrows in acknowledgement of being there. He hadn’t said a thing yesterday, little sneak.
“I’m glad. I’ve done the broth recipe before, but this is a new wonton mix, so let me know what you think.”
She continued around the table, and I slipped back into the kitchen to retrieve the next dish, marveling at the ease of the moment.
My usual dread of sitting and talking to people would’ve been diminished by recognizing that I knew every person around the table. But assisting in serving gave me something to do with my hands, an excuse to move around and not have the attention turn to me. Doing it with Summer, in tandem, felt natural.Right.
* * *
Everyone filtered out quickly, like they had the first time I’d attended, and left only Summer and me. Wordlessly, we cleared the table, rinsed dishes, and loaded the dishwasher. I washed a pot while she put away any leftovers—I didn’t even have to talk her into letting me do it.
I should’ve felt calm slipping over me as I swished the suds around, but instead, everything felt heightened. The light tap of her shoes against the floor kept my mind pinned to where she moved in the room. The hiss of the water in the tap as I rinsed the pot sounded sharp against thethud, thud, thudof my heart.
Something was coming. I’d worked all evening not to let my hopes gather themselves and storm the village, but here they were, pitchforks in hand, ready. But for what? Summer had pointedly asked me for help at least four times tonight. She’d actually said the words, “Nick, can you help me?”so there could be no confusion.
That she’d filled the list of people here tonight with those I knew also hinted at all of her actions being very purposeful. And at this point, as I dried the pot, smoothing away droplets of water, the thump of my heart sounded more like thunder. We’d almost finished cleaning up. Whatever her answer, whatever future lay head, would be made clear any minute.
Her voice interrupted my scattered train of thought.
“Can you stay a while, or do you need to—”
“I can stay.”
A pleased smile flashed at me, and she bit her lip.
“Good.” She held out a hand. “Come sit with me in the living room.”
I set down the now-dry pot, tossed the rag over the edge of the sink, and took her hand. They always felt soft compared to mine—no callouses. But her hands weren’t all that soft. They were strong. They were hands that healed, helped, and nourished.
I love these hands.
I swallowed the thought as we sat side by side on the small couch.
“You seem very serious. What’s going on in that head?” She squeezed my hand, then placed her other one on top.
“I was thinking about how generous you are. How much I like that about you.”
She frowned and looked down at our hands for a moment before pinning me with her gaze. “There is one person I haven’t been very generous with.”
My brows rose slightly, but I didn’t speak. My heart felt like it might beat out of my chest, but I didn’t speak—I neededherto.
“It’s been a long couple weeks, and I’ve missed you.” She smiled at me, almost shy, and inched closer on the couch, her hands still wrapped in mine.
“I’ve missed you too.”
“Really?”
I exhaled a laugh. “Yes. That can’t be a surprise.”
She looked happy, and a little pained. “I didn’t know if I could hope for that much—that you’d still care for me. But I wanted to be able toshowyou that I get it. Trusting doesn’t come naturally to me. It’s scary. And I’ve never been with someone who has been as scary in that regard as you.”
“I’mscary?”
A breath whooshed out of her. “I’m not explaining this right. What I mean is, I’ve never been with someone Iwantedto trust. Who made me feel safe and cared for and like they really might want to be with me because they… cared about me.”
My chest tightened at the thought, at how thin and frail a relationship would be built on exchanges and record-keeping. “I do care about you, Summer. So much.”
