—
By the time we got home the last thing I wanted to do was prep for film night. I made an excuse that we didn’t have any popcorn and I was tired from all the walking. And just when we agreed to call it a day, and I decided to file it away under “worst date ever”—blowingLa La Landsinging man entirely out of the water—George turns to me at my front door, apologizes so hard that he’s been a total idiot, says that he really likes me and knows he’s making a complete mess of this.
“I don’t know what happened today, Gallagher. I mean, I really have no idea how I ended up going from hero to zero. Total twat. I’m so sorry.”
I smile. “It’s OK.” I’m neither confirming nor denying his total-twat behavior. “I was a bit off, as well. I was a bit ungrateful in that gift shop.” Although I realize I was ungrateful about a pen I didn’t want, and that he didn’t actually want to buy me. I can’t work that one out now.
“It was the book,” he said. “I was angry that I left it on the bus. Angry with myself. I took it out on you. I’m still pissed off. But I shouldn’t have been such an idiot about it.”
“It’s fine, really. I’d be pissed off if I lost a hundred pounds as well.”
“Yeah, all right,” he says, inching toward me with a grin. “Don’t go on about it.”
“Ha!” I reply.
George leans forward, nuzzles my neck. “Can I make it up to you?”
“Yes,” I reply, immediately caving in like some kind of harlot as his lips brush their way up my neck. We fall inside my flat, and George does that thing that makes my knees go weak, when he kicks the door shut behind him purposefully. He pulls my jacket off, drops it to the floor, picks me up and carries me toward the bedroom.
—
Afterward he goes to the kitchen in just his boxer shorts. I love watching him walk around the kitchen, half-naked, sourcing all manner of boring-looking ingredients from my fridge and beginning to turn them into something marvelous. I linger in the kitchen, wearing his T-shirt and a pair of knickers, because I’ve got some level of modesty, preparing to be a sous chef, but he doesn’t need me.
“You got a food processor?” he asks, casting around for a kitchen gadget that I don’t own. He begins opening cupboards.
“No, sorry.”
“Aha,” he says, pulling out a food processor I’ve never seen before.
“I think Miranda must have left that behind when she moved out,” I say, moving to the cupboard. “What else is in there? Oh, there’s a steamer too.”
“Not one for healthy eating, are you, Gallagher?”
“In moderation,” I tease as I move to the fridge, pull out a bottle of wine. “Want a glass?”
“No. I thought I’d go for a run when my dinner’s gone down. Join me?”
“Maybe,” I say, cracking open the wine.
George frowns, shakes his head, and moves back to the task in hand.
“What are you making?”
“Spinach pesto.”
I nod. I didn’t know you could make pesto with spinach. He spies some chicken in the fridge, sniffs it, decides it’s worth pursuing, and chucks it into another pan, where it sizzles gently.
“You’re worth your weight in gold, aren’t you?” I suggest.
“You’d better believe it, baby,” he replies, lifting me onto the kitchen counter, raising his head to kiss me. He moves away, throws things into the food processor and starts blitzing various green ingredients.
I watch him as I sip my wine—George stirring, throwing pine nuts into the processor, me on the kitchen counter. This is nice. This is what I wanted. I’m happy. Right now I’m happy. We should never have gone out today. We should simply have stayed in, had a lot of sex, cooked food. I will go for a run with him in a bit. I am obviously going to drink this glass of wine first, though.
Chapter 17
Davey, April
I’m waiting tosee my oncologist again. I’ve gone into his office solo today. Mom’s in the hospital restaurant, begging me to let her know how the second round has gone, what my results are: whether the treatment has worked so far. Two chemo rounds done. One to go. And I’m thinking about this a lot. This last round.
