“It is, Eric.”
He sighs and holds me close to him, then kisses me slowly.
“I have to get back to the food. I don’t want to ruin our family dinner.”
I let go and watch as he busies himself at the hob, sautéing scampi and scallops.
“What you do… It’s amazing.”
Eric looks back at me. “You’re amazing.”
“So.” Jake wanders in, accompanied by my sister. “This dinner…”
Tonight Eric has cooked us scampi and scallop pasta with peas and mushrooms: there’s a scent wafting around the room that could make you forget you’ve ever eaten anything before. He said he didn’t want to cook anything traditional; he wanted to cook for us, from the heart, and I couldn’t be happier about it. He even made the bread himself, using a special starter he has. All I did was slice it when it came out of the oven, and Eric heated it quickly in a pan with some butter to make it crispy, so that we could eat it with the pasta. He made starters, too: pastry bites with mushroom and Gouda and with prosciutto and Brie. He made dessert, too: double chocolate and coffee cheesecake. I’m drooling just at the thought of it all.
We decided to eat in the living room. Jake has brought a foldaway table so that the four of us will fit. Mila took care of setting it, placing a candle in the middle and even using linen napkins, not paper. She bought them this morning especially. She said that now was the time to start making our own traditions, and even hung some mistletoe in the doorway. She says we’ve spent too long pretending we don’t care; she says that now is the time to stop pretending once and for all.
I watch as Jake loads Mila’s plate carefully, with so much love, and it makes me smile. To be honest, I’m actually trying really hard not to cry.
“Is everything okay?” Eric hands me a napkin and I dab at my eyes.
“It must be the candle.”
“Sure, the candle.”
I look at him and he flashes me one of those smiles which warms everything around us; even a heart as icy and decrepit as my own.
“He’s a good guy,” he says then, referring to Jake.
“I know.”
“After all, he set us up, right?” He takes my hand and kisses it.
“He did.”
“Do you reckon I deserve a prize?” Jake asks.
“Is dinner not enough?” Eric responds.
“I’m always eating at your restaurant. This is nothing new.”
“Well.” Eric picks up his napkin and spreads it over his lap. “I’m afraid you’ll have to find somewhere else to eat for free.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, worried.
“I’ve handed in my notice,” Eric says, sipping at his wine. We’re hanging on his every word.
“You did what?” Jake asks, alarmed.
“It wasn’t the right place for me.”
“What will you do now?” our friend asks.
“I have some ideas.”
“And you don’t want to share them with us?” Jake asks.
“I don’t feel like I need to share them right now. Besides, dinner’s going to get cold.”
