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I head for the back door.
My boyfriend, still feels a bit odd to call him that, stands in the alley, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders tight. He looks… smaller somehow. Less sure.
“Hey.” I hold up the keys. “Ready?”
His eyes fix on the metal glinting in my hand. “This is stupid.”
“Probably.” I step closer. “Want to do it anyway?”
“What if—” He cuts himself off, looking away. “What if I can’t do it? If I’m still the drunk mess, you had to drag home. The corporate drone who has no clue how to hold a knife. The disappointing son who?—”
I step into his space, close enough to feel his warmth but not touching. “You’re not any of those things.”
“Aren’t I?” His laugh is hollow. “You saw me yesterday. I couldn’t even?—”
“I saw someone trying.” My fingers itch to reach for him, but I keep my hands at my sides. “That’s more than you’ve done in months.”
“What if trying isn’t enough?”
“Then we try again.” The words come easily, surprising me. “That’s what you taught me, remember? With the pancakes?”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“Because you were learning something new. I used to know this. It used to be…” His voice cracks. “It was everything.”
“And it still is.” I hold up the keys, letting them catch the streetlight. “That’s why we’re here. No pressure, no expectations. Just you and a kitchen.”
“And you.”
“And me.” I take a breath. “I’ll make you a deal.”
“Another one?”
“Whatever you make, I’ll eat.”
He reaches for the keys but stops short. “Naomi…”
“Just…” I keep my voice light, even as my heart pounds. “Cook something, and I’ll try it.”
“You hate eating new things.”
“I hate a lot of things.” I press the keys into his palm, letting my fingers brush his skin. “Doesn’t mean I can’t try.”
“Then let’s go in.”
He moves through the kitchen like someone returning home after a long absence, each step hesitant at first. Checking burners, testing knobs, and running fingers along counter edges. But as the minutes tick by, something shifts.
He shrugs off his jacket, rolls up his sleeves, and tests knife edges against his thumb. His hands shake slightly as he reaches for the first onion and sets up the cutting board.
“What are you thinking?” I perch on a clean counter, watching him inventory ingredients.
“It’s different here. It’s like… my hands remember even if my head’s forgotten.”
“Your head hasn’t forgotten.”
“Maybe not.” The blade hovers over the onion, unmoving, as if he’s contemplating the first slice. “But it’s been fighting pretty hard to pretend it has.”