Page 96 of Lessons in Forgiving
My gaze snapped back and forth between Henry and the traditional dish he was preparing.
Not that seeing him behind a stove wasn’t unusual enough—you didn’t really learn to care for yourself when you grew up with nannies and cooks and housekeepers to do it for you—but that he was trying to make one of the few Dominican specialties that didn’t center around meat, knocked the wind out of me.
“What are you doing?” I asked because I didn’t know what else to say.
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
Cooking, obviously. A meal I hadn’t had in years and hadn’t realized I’d craved, for just as long. “I thought I’d feed you before you tear my head off on the way home. And I remembered you said you missed Dominican food.” His eyes slid in my direction, a playful grin on his lips as he turned the stove off. “And surprise, surprise. You came just in time. It’s like you have a sixth sense for these things.”
Arroz de Pajaritowas an almost foolproof dish. Cook rice. Fry plantain. Combine the two and cook them together for another few minutes. “This would’ve been one of my many groveling-attempts.”
I assessed the food absentmindedly. “Oneof many?”
He laughed.
Henry had nailed the rice like any Dominican might—burnt to the bottom of the pot. My dad was a forty-eight-year-old working-class man, and he wouldn’t have done it any better than Henry the billionaire. So, I didn’t blame his privilege on that.
Instead of ripe plantain, Henry had accidentally opted for its green equivalent. Which meant it wasn’t sweet and chewy, butstarchy and a little bland. It worked well in a variety of other dishes, but not necessarily in this one. It could’ve also done with a bit more seasoning.
All in all, it was… okay. But I couldn’t care less because Henry had driven to the store, picked up groceries and cooked a foreign meal for me.
So, when we sat at the dining table fit for a group of twenty, and he’d asked me how I liked it from the chair to my left… I lied.Who wouldn’t?
“I love it.” I took another big bite to demonstrate, and honestly, it really wasn’tthatbad. He gave me a disbelieving look despite my great performance. “Seriously,” I stressed.
His frown grew and he rolled his eyes. “I like it,” he countered, unsure what to think of his own food. “I do think it could be a little sweeter?”It would’ve been in he’d picked the right plantain.“Maybe if I added sugar next time?”
I audibly snorted at the suggestion. Just so beautifully American of him.
“No.” I shook my head quickly. “Dios mío, no.” It sounded worse the more time passed. “That’s the plantain’s fault, mi amor. I’ll help you…next time.”
And the nickname slipped out so naturally, I couldn’t even freak out, because I’d only realized I’d said it when we were back in the car, and I fell asleep to the memory replaying in my head.
CHAPTER 39
NOW
I got back to my cat and my girls late afternoon. As soon as their voices boomed through the open windows, arguing about the lastLove Islandrerun, I realized I’d missed them terribly, although it’s only been two days. How would I survive not living with them once we graduated in a few months?
The thought stuck with me. Because right then, tragically, I remembered it wasn’t a few months anymore. I’d gotten so used to saying it—well, at least we still have a few months!—that I’d forgotten that time went on, days passed. And it was no longer early March, with trees becoming green and flowers blooming, but late April. Sun high, sometimes burning, and we only had weeks until graduation.
Only weekswith the people I’d shared every aspect of my life with over the past four years.
Exams passed, projects graded. The only thing missing was the profile. There was nothing left to do but wait until we’d put on those robes, get handed our degrees, and go out into the world.
What a terrifying thought.
Similarly to the one that my profile would be released the same day, when graduates were more likely to get and keep an issue for the sake of it. And there was a gigantic difference between having it graded and read by professors, and having it scrutinized by your peers. The latter being much worse.
After editing, rewriting, then editing some more, I’d sent the draft to Eddie by the end of the week as promised. And, Ithought, maybe Icouldhave the best of both worlds, because I’d done it all while having incredible sex with Henry.
Without neglecting my work or prioritizing him.
When Henry would text, and I’d reply CAN’T YET. WRITING. he’d told me to make him look good and left it at that. Sometimes ordering food to be sent to my place because he knew when I was in the zone: I wasin the zone. Forgetting to eat and drink or simply care for my basic needs, until the flow of words ebbed.
He never demanded my time when I couldn’t give it to him. In return, I’d go over to his place the second I could.
Thankfully, I was too busy writing to worry about what all of this meant for our relationship. How the Hamptons and his groveling had changed things between us, and how we hadn’t talked about any of it.
