Page 101 of Napkins and Other Distractions
“Oh, Dad.” She sighs deeply, and a few chewed chip pieces hit the phone.
“This feels right,” I say. Gillian, like all good Jewish children, has a propensity to worry about her parents. “I promise.”
“No, that was a good sigh. It is a big deal. I’m so happy for you, that’s all. It’s been so long since … ”
“I know,” I say, the weight of loneliness over the last few years finally subsiding.
“And what happens after this weekend?”
“Well, typically Monday.”
“No, with Vincent. Once the implementation is over.”
I’m slightly lightheaded, so I scoot myself down. With my head comfortably nestled on the couch and my feet resting on the coffee table, I inhale deeply.
“We won’t see each other at school, but otherwise, I imagine nothing changes,” I say. Sweetums adjusts himself so he’s lying on my chest, face burrowed into the crook of my neck—Vincent’s favorite spot.
“I hope so,” she says.
And dear God in Heaven, hear my prayer. I hope so, too.
“What’s that smell?”
Vincent perches at the kitchen island, on his laptop, pecking away at a screen I don’t recognize. It’s dark gray and filled with lighter gray text. No pictures. No sounds. Only bland words scroll by as he scans with scrunched eyebrows, his fingers occasionally snapping keys.
“I roasted a chicken.” I hold the bag up, but he’s too engrossed in his current task. Placing the bag on the far end of the counter, I come behind him, lean in, and gently kiss his neck. Orange and honey mix with the faint sweetness of a scent that’s all him. A flavor that compliments the others but is distinct. A deep inhale. Maple Syrup. Fresh from the tap. Slightly earthy. It’s so fucking fragrant. I wish I could bottle him up. “The chicken is for you.”
“One second, babe.”
My stomach flips at this new term of endearment, and basking in the affection, I unpack the chicken and potatoes.
“I’ll make you a plate.” Taking two from Vincent’s cupboard, I carefully place four slices of breast meat and two spoons of mashed potatoes on each plate, ensuring nothing touches. As I bend down into the drawer for napkins, Vincent’s arms wrap around my waist, and he pulls me close.
“Thank you.” Vincent’s breath falls on my neck.
“You need to eat.”
“I do. We have a long night ahead of us,” he teases.
“Are things not going well?”
“Oh no, everything’s fine. I have to check a few more times before bed, but I meant a long night in Paris.” He sits and places a napkin on his lap and another beside his plate. With each passing day, Vincent becomes more familiar—his touch, his presence, the way he looks into my eyes. This comfort we’re falling into, the ultimate pleasure. I haven’t felt needed by someone like this in years and my face beams as I hand Vincent his plate.
“I will do my best to assist,” I say, only slightly more confident in my ability to translate the coded pictures into coherent directions for Vincent. Of course, he could look at the book himself, but then what part would I play?
“Tonight, I think you might need to do more than read the directions,” he says.
“Wait.” I put my fork and knife down. “You’re going to let me … touch them?”
“If you’re good.” A smile inches across his beautiful face, and a warmth sprouts in my chest. Being here. With him. Eating. Talking. Building. Vincent gazes at me with that half grin that sends my insides tumbling, and fuck. I want to drink his smile up—every last drop.
CHAPTER 33
Vincent
“Gray? Which gray? There’s like fifty shades of gray.”
Booklet in hand, Kent pulls at his beard as he cocks his head back and forth.
