Page 78 of Is She Really Going Out with Him?
“Fine, you can serve.”
He grins, delighted, then fills one of the buns with a fried egg and two strips of bacon. In the cooler we find a huge array of condiments: brown sauce, mayonnaise, homemade chutneys, and relishes.
“Look at this, haute cuisine in the woods. What do you want on yours?” he asks me.
“Oh, however it comes,” I say with a shrug, but he looks at me questioningly.
“But what would youlike?” he asks.
“Mayonnaise and chutney then.”
“You always say ‘however it comes,’ ” he tells me as he makes up my breakfast bun.
“Do I?”
“Yes. Maybe it’s a mum thing, my mum used to say that too. One Mother’s Day—I must have been seven—I remember asking if I could make her perfect sandwich for lunch, and she said, ‘Sure, I’ll have a ham and cheese.’ But I wanted to knowexactlywhat her perfect ham and cheese sandwich would look like. She said, ‘However it comes,’ but I insisted I wanted to get it just right. Finally she laid it out: she wanted mayonnaise on a piece of rye, followed by ham, then cheese, lettuce, one more slice of ham, then a small dab of French mustard. I made a total mess of the kitchen, but you know, I think it was the best sandwich I’ve ever made.” He grins, and my heart melts. “She could have been humoring me, who knows.” He pauses, then says, “She used to remember all our little food preferences. Like how Simon loved Red Leicester, whereas I preferred Cheddar, or I’d eat the salami with the pepper around it, but Harry wouldn’t touch it. Every packed lunch she made was this little act of love and remembering.” He hands me my roll. “After she died, Dad made the same packed lunch for everyone. We ate what we were given.”
“Oh, that’s so sad,” I say.
“It wasn’t a big deal, we weren’t too fussy. I just remember it was one of the things I missed. Feeling like someone knew these little details about me.”
“Well, this is the best breakfast sandwich I’ve ever had,” I say, feeling slightly choked up by his story. “What are you having on yours? I’m feeling the pressure now.”
“Brown sauce, always brown sauce,” he says, taking the other roll from the griddle and talking me through his preparation. “Mayonnaise, but only if it’s Hellmann’s, and never mixed with the brown sauce; you’ve got to keep them separate, either side of the bun.”
“You know, Will, I think eating at all those five-star restaurants has turned you into a sandwich diva,” I say, elbowing him.
“Really? Wait, you’ve got a little—” He reaches across to wipe something from my nose, but when I reach up, I realize he’s wiped brown sauce onto it.
“Hey!” I say indignantly, but then I forgive him when he leans in to kiss it away.
—
After breakfast wehead out for a walk in the woods on the other side of the river, holding hands like teenagers. This weekend has been so perfect—I’ve never felt this connected to someone so quickly before—but then I remember it has to end.
“Wouldn’t it be great if we could just stay here forever,” Will says, as though reading my mind.
“I wish,” I say.
“Why don’t we? I could learn to forage, catch fish?”
“My children might miss me,” I say.
“Right,” he says, and now I feel like I ruined the fantasy by mentioning my kids. Thinking about them stirs a nagging guilt. I’ve never been uncontactable for this long before. What if something’s happened? When Jess was two, I had a weekend awaywith girlfriends. It was the first time I’d left her. I had such a nice time, but then came back to find Dan had trapped her finger in the door and they’d ended up in the emergency room. Some part of me felt the universe was punishing me for daring to enjoy my time away.
“I might just check my messages,” I say when we get back to camp.
“Don’t. The weekend’s not over yet. When we let the outside world back in, the spell will be broken.”
But now that I’ve thought it, I can’t not. A dissonance crept in the minute I mentioned the children. “I need to,” I say, more firmly than I intend. Will doesn’t know what it’s like to be a parent, he doesn’t understand you can never truly check out. A chill wind blows through the woods and something in my gut tells me I need to check my phone.
“Sure, do what you need to do,” he says, walking across to the log pile to start splitting wood. I can’t tell if he’s annoyed or just being matter-of-fact.
Retrieving my phone from his lockbox, I walk out into the valley and up the hill. I feel a surge of anxiety as messages, e-mails, and alerts start to ping in. I home in on the ones from Jess.
Jess
Mum when are you back? I need you.
