Page 119 of Another Day (Every Day 2)

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I find some cookbooks. We choose, by and large, to ignore them.

“Improvise,” A says. And I think, yes, that’s what we’re doing. Improvising. Living by instincts. It’s a big kitchen, but we make it feel like a small space. We fill it with music from Alexander’s iPod and steam from the boiling pots and smells as different as basil picked from the stem and garlic sautéed against a flame. There’s no plan here, just ingredients. I am sweating along and singing along and I am not stressed, because even if none of it ends up edible, it’s still worth it just to be putting it together. I think about my parents, and how they’ve missed this sensation of working together, or putting your hands on the back of the person as he stands at the stove, or having one person start the sauce but the other person take it over without a word. We are a team of two. And since it’s not a competition, we’ve already won.

In the end we have a kale salad, garlic bread, a huge pasta primavera, a quinoa and apricot salad, and a pan of lemon squares.

“Not bad,” A says. And what I want to tell him is that now I understand why people want to share a life with someone else. I see what all the fuss is about. It’s not about sex or being in a couple when you hang out with other couples. It’s not for ego gratification or fear of loneliness. It’s about this, whatever this is. And the only thing wrong with it right now is that I’m sharing it with someone who’s bound to leave.

I don’t say any of this. Because the last part makes all the rest of it harder to say.

“Should I set the table?” I ask instead. The Lins have a very nice dining room table, and a feast like this seems fit for a very nice dining room table.

A shakes his head. “No. I’m taking you to my favorite place, remember?”

He looks through the cupboards until he finds two trays. The food we’ve made barely manages to fit on them. Then A finds a bunch of candles and takes them along, too.

“Here,” he says, handing me one of the trays. Then he leads me out the back door.

“Where are we going?” I ask. I don’t even have my jacket. I hope we’re not going far.

“Look up,” he says.

At first, all I see is the tree. Then I look closer and see the tree house.

“Nice,” I say, finding the ladder.

“There’s a pulley system for the trays. I’ll go up and drop it down.”

These parents have thought of everything.

As I balance the trays, A heads up the ladder and sends a platform down. I’m not sure how balanced it’s going to be, but I put one of the trays on, and A manages to pull it up without anything falling off. We repeat this for the second tray, and then it’s my turn to go up the ladder.

It’s like something I’ve read about in a book. It never occurred to me that kids could actually have tree houses in their backyards.

There’s an open door at the top, and I climb right through. A has lit some of the candles, so the air flickers as I pull myself inside. I look around and see what’s basically a log cabin stuck in the air. There isn’t much furniture, but there’s a guitar and some notebooks, a small bookshelf with an old encyclopedia on it. A has put the trays in the middle of the floor, since there isn’t any table and there aren’t any chairs.

“Pretty cool, isn’t it?” A says.

“Yeah.”

“It’s all his. His parents don’t come up here.”

“I love it.”

I take the plates, napkins, and silverware from one of the trays and set the table that isn’t a table. When I’m done, A serves—some of everything for each of us. As we sit across from each other, we comment on the food—it’s all turned out better than it has any reason to be. The sauce on the pasta primavera tastes like a spice I can’t quite identify—I ask A what it is, and he doesn’t remember. He thinks I might have put it in. I don’t remember, either. It was all just part of the improvisation.

There’s a carafe of water on one of the trays, and that’s all we need. We could have wine. We could have vodka. We could have Cherry Cokes. It would all be the same. We’re drunk on candlelight, intoxicated by air. The food is our music. The walls are our warmth.

As the first candles diminish, A lights more. There isn’t brightness, but there’s a glow. I’ve just taken my first bite of a lemon square, its tartness still on my tongue. I catch A watching me and assume I have some powdered sugar on my face. I move to wipe it off. He smiles, still looking.

“What?” I ask.

He leans over and kisses me.

“That,” he says.

“Oh,” I say. “That.”