Page 103 of Love Is an Art
I may not have seen any red flags when I first dated Paisley, but here, red-flag bunting marks the start line. Beware! Danger ahead!
We wander around the aisles of Fairway and pick up food like a couple. In a good way. In a way that I’d like to continue.
It’s a bevy of colors in the produce and fruit departments. Orange, green, yellow, and red peppers are all lined up on top of each other to create blocks of color. Like a work of art.
Can she really cook?
She glances over at me. “You’re looking at me very suspiciously.”
“I am?” She can read me well. “It’s true. I’m wondering if this is another one of your plots, following the old adage that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”
She shakes her head. “This is honestly what it looks like. I’m thanking you by making you a meal. And I will say that the way to my heart … well, someone who can cook is definitely a keeper.”
“I can’t cook,” I blurt out. Like an idiot.
She pats me on the arm. “Sometimes it’s all about the effort.”
As we pass by the spice shelves, I suggest we pick up whatever spices we need.
“You must have some spices.”
“Curry, salt, and pepper,” I say. “If we need anything else, we should get them.”
We buy the rest of what we need.
After checking out, we walk back, each carrying a huge Fresh Direct bag. She stops by Levain Bakery to pick up a chocolate chip cookie for dessert. The late-afternoon sun glints off the buildings.
Brit greets us excitedly as I open the door to my one-bedroom apartment. “And this is Brit.”
My boxer wags her tail excitedly. Tessa kneels down, and Brit licks her face. She sits on the floor and pets Brit.
And I swear, my heart melts a little bit. She’s a dog person. Paisley didn’t want any pets, so Brit was my breakup gift to myself.
“I need to walk her after dinner,” I say. “My neighbor’s teenager walked her around noon, so she’s okay for a bit.”
My kitchen is an open concept in the back of the living room with my bedroom off to the side. I show her where everything is. She hands me a cutting board, the onions to dice, and an apple to peel and shred.
She ties her hair up into a ponytail and chops the fennel. Then she sets about combining the various ingredients in a bowl to make the meatballs. She unearths a hand mixer from her backpack.
“You brought a hand mixer?” I ask.
“You said to come prepared,” she says. “Do you have one?”
“No.” I peer over her shoulder to see what else is in the backpack. “Is that like the Mary Poppins’ bag?”
She tilts her head and looks at me. We’re so close. Her lips part, and I hesitate. I want to kiss her. I pull back.
“Did you ever want to be a public interest lawyer?” I busy myself at the counter.
“Yes. That’s why I went to law school. I summered my first year at FLAFL as an intern. Another lawyer recommended I practice at a law firm first to earn money to pay off my loans and because it’s valuable legal experience. And I do enjoy it.”
“Why’d you want to work for FLAFL?” I ask.
She pauses as she’s pouring milk into the mixing bowl, and it’s like she’s thinking about what to say. Or rather what to tell me.
Finally, she says, “To do good.”
I divide my chopped onions into two separate bowls per her directions and shred the apple. She hesitated too long when answering. I didn’t pass whatever test she has for deciding whether to give the short or long answer. The real reason.
