Page 20 of The Four Engagement Rings of Sybil Rain

“I have an idea.” He grabs my yoga mat and wipes it down, returning it to the wall. “Come with me.” He starts walking toward the gym door.

“But wait, what about your workout?” The Jamie I knew was always a man of routine.

But he just shrugs. “It can wait.”

He takes my hand again, and something about the strength with which he grips it makes me feel like maybe he never wanted to drop it in the first place. We leave the gym and pad through the empty resort.

Jamie leads me past the concierge desk and around a large potted palm tree to an inconspicuous hallway toward an even more inconspicuous set of doors.

“Jamie!” I whisper-shout. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

Jamie’s hand is warm in mine as he pushes through the doors. We’ve left the artfully curated halls of the hotel behind as we step into a dimly lit industrial kitchen.

“So, what are you in the mood for?” He plucks a fresh white towel from a stack and flings it over his shoulder. “You can have anything that doesn’t involve the fryer.”

I open my mouth, but no words come out. “I—you…” I start, before finally landing on, “I’m sorry— what ?”

Jamie smirks at my disbelief. “I have my ways,” he says enigmatically. Then he adds, a little more sheepish this time, “We should hurry, though; I bet the staff arrives soon to get brunch set up.”

I burst out laughing, deciding I don’t want to know how Jamie managed to gain access to the resort kitchen, instead preferring just to stay in this warm and cozy bubble where real-life things like logic don’t apply.

“Well, well, well,” I say. “Who’s this new-and-improved Jamie? First you jump off a snorkel boat into the open ocean, then you forgo your sacred gym routine, now you’re trespassing .”

“Maybe you rubbed off on me.” The look he gives me sends something sparkling through me from my face to my toes. “Anyway,” he says, “what can I make you?”

“Surprise me.”

Jamie narrows his eyes, studying me, then nods his head as if deciding something.

He reaches for a skillet and slides it onto the stovetop.

The burner beneath ignites with a soft whoosh.

Then he disappears into a walk-in fridge, and I hop up onto the stainless-steel counter beside the stovetop.

It’s cool beneath my thighs. There are rustling noises for a few moments, and Jamie emerges with a carton of eggs, jugs of milk and cream, butter, and a couple of apples.

He dumps the haul of food on the counter beside me.

Jamie is an incredibly competent person in general, but he especially shines in the kitchen.

I remember watching him prepare an entire Friendsgiving dinner on a trip we took to Tahoe.

It was the first trip we ever went on together, though back then, I wasn’t sure if my crush was requited.

By the end of the trip, however, Jamie had finally made his feelings known.

My toes still curl remembering our first time together in the little twin bedroom of his friend’s lake house.

But leading up to that, I spent most of that weekend happy to just be in the same room with him as he diced potatoes and rubbed thyme leaves off the stem between his thumb and fingers.

I was mesmerized then, as I am now, by the precision of his knife work—and by the sight of his sleeves pushed up, his lean forearms exposed.

Jamie slices the apple into wedges and then into smaller cubes.

“Can you hand me those mixing bowls?”

“Let me help,” I say, hopping off the counter. “Just tell me what to do.”

“Okay. Slowly mix in the wet ingredients with these dry ones. Can you handle it?”

“Yes, chef.” I don’t mean it to sound suggestive, but I guess it kind of does because Jamie’s face turns red. I clear my throat. “So, remind me again why you never pursued being a professional cook?”

“That was just a fantasy,” he says, turning back to the ingredients. “I guess I wanted to be a cook in the way some kids want to be professional athletes. It was never a realistic thing.” In a separate bowl, he whips cream until it’s stiff.

I think about what he said last night at the tiki bar—about wishing he’d followed his instincts more. “Maybe being realistic is overrated,” I say softly. “You shouldn’t have to give up your childhood fantasies.”

He turns and smiles at me. “Oh, I haven’t given up on them, I just have new fantasies now.

” This time, it’s my turn to blush, remembering the fantasies we shared last night over what our honeymoon might’ve been like.

“Here,” he says, spooning some of the whipped cream in his bowl. “Is it whipped enough?”

He almost feeds me a taste, but it’s like he remembers we aren’t actually together, and instead holds out the spoon for me to feed myself. It’s sweet and effortless, and I nod, not trusting myself to say more without accidentally groaning in pleasure.

I feel my lips part, and as they do, Jamie’s gaze dips to my mouth. He clears his throat and takes a step backward, placing the bowl of whipped cream on the counter and heating up a pan of butter.

The butter has taken on a slightly brown color, and a gentle nutty smell rises from the pan.

There’s a soft sizzle when he pours on perfect circles of batter.

When we lived together, Jamie did most of the cooking.

He enjoyed it and was much more skilled than me—plus, I find washing dishes soothing, so our division of labor worked out well.

The meals he made were always delicious, but sometimes I felt like I was in a Noma incubator.

There’s only so much fermentation a girl can take.

Once, we’d had rutabaga in every meal for a whole week until I finally revolted and ordered a meat-lovers pizza with extra jalapenos from Abbot’s.

Jamie flips the pancakes, and the now-exposed sides are a perfect golden brown.

For a moment, neither of us says anything.

The soft sizzling from the pan is the only sound.

Staring at the strong curve of his shoulders and back, the way his hair curls up softly at the edges near the collar of his shirt.

It’s familiar and strange all at once. It’s my Jamie, but it’s not.

He’s the same, but different. On the snorkel boat, Jamie said that a lot can change in a year.

But some things have only grown more apparent, like the way Jamie always seems to take care of me—in both the big ways, like following me into the ocean, and the quieter ones, like making me breakfast.

I think of what Emma and Finn said on the phone this morning. That compatibility was never our issue, it was communication. Maybe they’re right.

I need to tell him the truth—I know I do.

But as I stare at the curve of his back while he works on our breakfast, it just feels so good to be in his presence, I find myself biting my tongue. Afraid to shatter the moment.

I just want to feel taken care of by him. Like I did from the very beginning.

I T HAD ONLY BEEN a few months of me and Jamie hanging out when he invited me out to Tahoe with his college buddies for a Friendsgiving dinner.

He’d heard that I was staying in California for Thanksgiving, with no plans besides watching the Westminster dog show and eating a whole jar of cornichons by myself, and insisted I join him instead.

I said yes, of course—I had a huge crush on him by that point, even though we weren’t actually dating yet.

And it seemed like he liked me. I just couldn’t tell in what way, yet.

For years, I’d been so used to guys being nice to me because they wanted to sleep with me.

But Jamie was nice to me because he was really nice to everyone .

When we arrived at the house, Jamie immediately began to prep the meal, shooing the rest of us out of the kitchen.

Normally, I had no problem being around new people, but I felt a twinge of nervousness as I settled onto the couch in the living room with his friends.

They passed around a bottle of wine from the Kauffmans’ vineyard and told me how glad they were that I was here.

Though I couldn’t help but notice that no one was explicitly stating in what capacity I had been invited.

Was I just the pathetic friend Jamie took pity on?

Or someone with whom he hoped to become more than friends?

“You’re good for him,” Vittal said thoughtfully as we sat in front of the crackling fire he’d built in the lodge’s massive stone fireplace.

“I am?” My face flushed with embarrassment, but I was also pleased. Vittal was one of Jamie’s oldest friends, and I knew how much his good opinion mattered.

“When he’s with you, he’s… lighter,” Vittal said softly.

“You pull him out of his shell,” Chris added.

“We all know our Jamie boy can be a little shy and awkward,” Mike chimed in, and his wife, Shannon, elbowed his ribs. “What! He can! But he is also tall, handsome, and a scratch golfer. So of course Sybil likes him. What’s not to like? To Jamie!”

It was their endorsement that made me confident enough to tell Jamie how I really felt.

We were standing on the deck overlooking the lake, Jamie looking so handsome and earnest telling me about how he was on the crew team in high school, when suddenly something clicked in my chest. It was like the safety latch on our relationship had finally disengaged.

“Jamie, I have to be honest with you. This trip has been amazing, but it’s also kind of been torture for me.”

“What? Why?” he said, turning to me in concern.

A combination of lust, confusion, and exasperation threatened to overwhelm me. “Isn’t it obvious? I like you! But I can’t get a read on your feelings at all!”

A smile played slowly across his lips. “I’m sorry for not communicating how I felt sooner.”

“Which is?” Please don’t be laughing at me , I silently prayed.

“I knew you’d just gotten out of something serious. I had too. I just didn’t want to move too fast.”

“And now?” I asked.