Page 13 of A Beginner's Guide to Forever
“I can’t stop thinking about Kibera.”
I nod in understanding, my eyes latched on to his. His eyes are not quite brown, but not quite green. They’re hazel, and very striking.
“I know I’ve seen it with my own eyes, but I still can’t make sense of how twenty minutes outside of one of Africa’s richest cities exists Africa’s largest slum.”
I meet his eyes. “There are a billion people in the world without access to financing or a bank account, let alone water, medicine, education ...”
He shakes his head. “It’s hard to fathom. I know how privileged I am, or at least I thought I did. Visiting Africa was more enlightening than you can imagine.”
I’m pleased that he seems to understand his privilege, but I sense there’s something more at play. “Is that all you came to say?”
“No.” He gazes down for a moment before giving me a look that’s filled with boyish charm and a bit of mischief. “I brought you something.”
Part of me wondered if I’d made the whole thing up in my head—invented the chemistry I’d felt stirring between us.
I hadn’t.
I feel frazzled around him. I’m never frazzled.
He’s holding something, I realize. A red tin box. He gently places it on my desk between us.
“What’s this?” I reach for it, running my thumb over the gold lettering. It’s written in Dutch.
“Chocolate chip cookies. I had them overnighted from Belgium.”
In my line of work, I’m not often stunned, but that’s the emotion I feel when I realize that my complaint about missing chocolate chip cookies has been answered with Belgian chocolate.
“That was way too generous.”
He shakes his head. “Believe me, it was nothing. Have one.”
I pry open the lid, and tucked inside individual red tissue sleeves are the most mouth-watering cookies I’ve ever seen. They smell divine.
“Only if you join me.” I gesture for him to help himself, but he shakes his head.
“They’re a gift.”
“Well, thank you for the gift. I didn’t expect you’d still be in town.”
“I’m leaving tomorrow. My parents are staying to enjoy the wildlife reserve. But I have the jet if you’d like a lift to London.”
“I’ve already booked a flight, but thank you. You can sit, by the way.” I motion to the chairs in front of my desk.
He lowers his tall frame into the chair while I select a cookie from the tin. For a moment, neither of us speaks. I’m still surprised to see him here, and not quite sure what to say.
I settle on “Tell me about the art exhibit.” The National Gallery is a very big deal, one of the best museums in London, if not the world.
And as he does, I take a bite of the most delicious cookie I’ve ever tasted. Vanilla. Brown sugar. Flecks of sea salt. Dark chocolate that melts on my tongue. “These are dangerous,” I moan.
He smiles. “The art on display is from the personal collection of my great-aunt Edith, who passed away last year. It’s been donated to the museum. She was known for having an impressive art collection—it’s a bit of everything. Chinese pottery, postimpressionism, some photography. I believe there are about sixty pieces in total. My favorite is an early Jean-Michel Basquiat.”
His eyes travel around my small office, taking it in. The wall behind me is painted black and decorated with pieces of colorful art I’ve collected on my travels—string art from Nepal, a red tapestry from Thailand. There’s a potted plant in the corner, with a photo hanging above it—me at the Marcus Center, an orphanage here in Kenya, two years ago. I’m holding a precious set of newborn twins, one in each arm, with a huge smile on my face. My desk, which is littered with papers,folders, books, and memos. I would have cleaned up a little if I knew I was going to have a guest today.
“Be worthy of love and love will come,” he reads from the framed quote sitting on my desk.
“It’s a quote from the novelLittle Women, one of my favorites.”
There’s another one, in a larger frame on the wall, from John Steinbeck’sEast of Eden, about how you don’t have to be perfect; you can simply be good.
