Crap. I smell them, and they’re about to burn. I fly over to the stove and flip them as fast as I can, and most of them are fine, but one of them is charred to inedibility.
“Sorry,” I say.
“No worries. I don’t mind them a little crispy.”
I snicker and tilt the burnt pancake so he can see it. “I think this may be a little bit beyond merely crispy, Nathan.”
His eyes widen. “Oh. Well, yeah. That one, maybe.”
I laugh, and plate the three that are edible, toss the ruined one in the trash, and ladle four more onto the griddle. “I’m good at this, I swear. I just got a little…distracted.”
He’s leaning against the doorway. “It’s all good.” He sets the champagne and orange juice down, lifts the coffee. “Mugs?”
I bring him mugs, and champagne flutes. Or, rather, I bring him mugs and start to bring him flutes and rethink it. Instead, I bring him regular wineglasses. “Might as well do it properly.”
He pours coffee, hands me a mug. “I’m in. I haven’t had a mimosa since my…” he trails off. “Well, in a long time.”
“Say what you were going to say. No point in dancing around it, right?”
“Since my honeymoon,” he says. He stares into his coffee. “Nine years ago.”
“Used to have them all the time. I had a big circle of close friends in college. Me and Adrian, my best friend Tess and her then-boyfriend, later husband, and now ex-husband, and two other couples. We’d go to brunch every weekend and get day drunk on mimosas.”
“I thought it was pancakes on the weekends.”
“That was Saturdays. Sundays were for brunching.”
“Oh.” He grins. “You did weekends right in college, it sounds like.”
I sigh. “Yeah, I guess I did. Haven’t had a weekend like that in…well, in a long, long time.”
I flip the pancakes, and this time they’re perfect golden brown, fluffy and dense.
“When did they stop? Those weekends, I mean.”
I sip the coffee while leaning on the counter beside the stove; he’s still leaning against the doorway. I don’t invite him in, and he doesn’t seem to mind. I don’t let myself examine this too closely.
“Adrian and I graduated. We all went to UNC, and after graduation, we moved back down here. Tess and Clint stayed up there a few more years, and the others I just lost track of. I started work, and Adrian was working nights at a bar and writing during the day. We’d have some good weekends, but we needed money so I started covering shifts on the weekend in addition to my normal schedule. And he’d be up early writing on Saturdays and Sundays, since those were his busiest days at the bar at night.” I shrug. “I guess we let life stop us from...I don’t know. From enjoying life. Sounds dumb, now that I put it that way.”
“It’s not dumb. It’s normal.”
“Shouldn’t be, though.” I’m on the third batch of pancakes by this time.
“No, it shouldn’t.” He smirks. “You know, I have no idea what day of the week it is? Literally, no clue.”
I blink. “You know, now that you mention it, me neither,” I say, laughing.
“So why don’t we just agree it’s Saturday.” He uncorks the champagne with a loud pop, pours a short layer of orange juice at the bottom of the wineglass and then a generous amount of champagne over that. He extends one to me, and I take it. “Here’s to enjoying the weekend.”
I clink it against his. “Here’s to the weekend.”
We sip, and I’m transported back to more carefree days. I close my eyes, and I can almost hear Tess cackling at her own lewd jokes, Kyle and Tanner egging her on, Clint embarrassed by her and pretending to laugh along with us—he always was an asshole like that, he never appreciated her for who she is.
I take another sip, eyes closed, and I’m with Adrian in Paris. The last time we were happy together, before The Big C took him from me. He knew then. That’s what that was for. A goodbye. Memories to die with.
I swallow hard, blink away tears. Turn away before Nathan notices, and scrape the flipper under the pancakes so they don’t stick to the griddle. Clear my throat.
“Thank for this,” I say, lifting the mimosa.
“I dunno, seems like I stepped in something complicated.”
I shake my head. “You couldn’t have known.”
He doesn’t answer that. I plate the last of the pancakes. Grab the syrup, plates, forks, and a stick of butter, and bring it all out to the porch. It’s a glorious morning, cool but not cold, sunny and bright, the early morning light golden and clear.
Nathan is wearing perfectly tight blue jeans, a red-and-blue flannel shirt open over a gray waffle-print Henley, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His stubble has grown into a thick beard since I met him, and he seems content to leave it. His hair is a little too long, shaggy and feathered around his ears and the back of his neck. He could use a haircut.
I used to cut Adrian’s hair. I have no formal training, just some cosmetology shears from Amazon and some YouTube knowledge. But he liked me cutting his hair, liked the way I did it. Mainly because I’d do it in booty shorts and a bra so I didn’t get hair on my clothes. He’d only get a professional haircut if he had to do an interview or before a big international signing or promo event.
I shake these thoughts off, settling into my rocking chair and gesturing for Nathan to go first. “Help yourself, please.”
He forks four pancakes at once, cuts himself a thick slice of butter and spreads it on the steaming top pancake, and then the others under it. Liberal syrup. And then, oddly, he cuts his stack into pieces all at once, which makes me grin.
“What?” he asks, partway done chewing.
I shake my head and shrug, but I’m laughing. “Nothing.”
He sighs. Sets his fork down with dramatic finality. “It’s because I cut them all up first, isn’t it?”
“I’ve just never seen a grown man do it that way.”
“It’s convenient, is all.” He spears another forkful. “A little bit of cutting up front and I can eat them a lot faster. Which means I can get more sooner.”
I cackle. “A-ha! The real purpose comes out.”
“I’m a big guy. I eat a lot. Dad would only make pancakes for us once in a while, but when he did, he’d make a shitload, and it’d be a race to see who could eat more.” He pauses, and I sense a heaviness settling on his shoulders. “Then, after I was married to Lisa, she’d get a kick out of feeding me pancakes. She’d call me to breakfast some random morning, and she’d have the first two batches done, and she’d wait till I was sitting, and then it’d be a race. Could I finish them all before she was finished making the next batch? She’d have two griddles going at once, and I’d be just, god, just gorging myself on them. She thought it was equal parts hysterical and baffling how many I could eat.” He perks up, laughing. “Course, back then, I was going to the gym regularly, so I could afford the extra calories.” He pats his stomach, which I wouldn’t say is anything to be embarrassed about, but is probably not going to win any Instagram best six-pack awards. “I haven’t touched a barbell in years, but haven’t changed my eating habits all that much, least until I got here, that is. So I’m not in the shape I used to be.”
“Well, we all cope in different ways.”
I steal a glance at the rest of him—he is big. It’s not that I hadn’t noticed, before—he’s of a size that you can’t miss. Six-four, with heavy, rounded shoulders, as if the weight of muscle on his shoulders is almost too much for his frame to bear. His arms stretch the sleeves of the flannel. He doesn’t have a noticeable, protruding belly, but generously speaking, it’s clear he likes to eat. His hair is black, longish, with touches of gray at the temples, and streaks of gray shot through his beard near his ears and jawline. He has enormous hands. His fingers nearly meet around the width of his wineglass, which requires both of my hands to accomplish. He has scars on his hands, cuts and nicks in crisscrossing white lines. His knuckles are scarred—he�
�s leaving out some dark periods of his life, I think. My dad’s knuckles looked like Nathan’s, and I know Dad had a history of getting into scuffles, before they had me.
Nathan catches my eyes on his knuckles, and flexes his fist, shakes it out. “Had some rough times, after I left home. I was angry at life, and thus at everyone. I’d hit walls as much as people, if I couldn’t find anyone to pick a fight with.”
“You seem very much the opposite, now.”
He nods. “Get locked up for assault and battery, you start to reconsider things. Realized if I wanted to end up like Dad, all I had to do was keep going the way I was and I end up there sure as shootin’.” Every once in a while, I can really hear the Louisiana in his voice. “Or, I could pick a different path. So, I quit feeling sorry for myself and quit letting my anger at a shitty hand in life make me ornery, and I found someone that’d let me work with wood. A shop teacher at a local community college. Mr. Greene.” He sighs, thinks back. “He never asked me a single question. Saw me on the street one day, whittling, invited me to the college shop, and we ended up friends. He let me come as much as I wanted while the college was open, and even if he was teaching class, I could be there working on something.”
“Were you homeless?” I ask.
He nods. Spears more pancakes, and suddenly I’m glad I made what I’d thought would way too many. “For a time.”
“You’ve overcome a lot of hardship, haven’t you?” I sip coffee, and then mimosa.
“I guess,” he says. “But I’ve never really thought about it like that. It’s just my life. It is what it is. Shit comes at you, you can either lay down and let it roll over you, or you can figure it out.” He tosses back the last of his mimosa. “Lisa getting killed, though, that’s a hardship I couldn’t figure out. Getting over her was just too goddamn hard. It was so sudden, so unexpected. She was just…gone. And I …I couldn’t deal.”
I nod. “I know how that feels. The not being able to deal.”
He eyes me. “Yeah, I guess you do.”
I hand him my wineglass. “More, please.”
He snickers, and fixes us both another. The pancakes are nearly gone by now, two-thirds of them in his belly. My appetite is coming back, slowly but surely, and I find myself taking thirds, to my own surprise.
The coffee pour-over thing is empty, and he lifts it. “You want more?”
I nod. “If the question is coffee, the answer is always yes.”
“Be right back. You keep eatin’, I’m full.”
A few minutes later, my plate is empty, my belly is about to burst, and he’s clomping up the steps with a fresh pot of coffee. There are three pancakes left, and I notice him eying them.
I stab them with my fork, fix them the way I saw him do it for himself, butter on each one, syrup. I’m not sure why, but I cut them up, too.
And then I had the plate to him.
He takes the plate slowly, as if he’s confused. I am too, honestly. Why did I do that? Fixing his pancakes for him feels…intimate.
“I couldn’t eat another bite,” I say, by way of explanation.
He nods, again slowly, eyeing me almost warily. He eats, and the look of happiness on his face is a beautiful thing. “Damn good pancakes, Nadia. Thank you.”
“As good as Lisa’s?” I hear myself ask, and then immediately bite down on my tongue until I taste blood.
His fork clatters abruptly. “Don’t do that,” he says, with a tinge of anger in his voice.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t know what the hell came over me. I’m really, really sorry.”
He sighs. Sets the unfinished plate on his knees. “They’re different. She made hers smaller, the batter thinner. Not better, nor worse. Just…different.”
“You didn’t have to answer. It was a monumentally stupid question.”
Why would I sabotage something as good as this? It’s been comforting, friendly, no pressure. A companion in a dark time. I realize I really appreciate him, the little bit of time I’ve known him.
I blink back tears, stand up, and take my mimosa out toward the dock. Why sabotage a good thing? I can’t figure out why the hell I’d say something like that.
I don’t like the answer that bubbles up inside me. Because it’s a good thing.
Because you like him.
“It’s fine, Nadia. Don’t be upset.” His voice is close, directly at my left shoulder, closer than I think he’s ever been to me, physically.
“I am.” I sniffle. “I’m sorry. I truly don’t know what came over me.”
“Mouths run away from brains, sometimes. Happens to the best of us. No worries.”
“It was an amazing morning, until that. I feel like I ruined it.”
He bumps against me, his big, broad shoulder nudging me sideways. “Nah. We had delicious pancakes. Mimosas. Pretty damn good coffee, if I do say so myself. It’s a beautiful morning. So, still amazing.”
“Thank you for being understanding.”
“Pain makes people stupid,” he says. “Don’t worry about it.”
I grin at him. “It does make us dumb, doesn’t it?”
“So dumb.” His grin in return is warm, forgiving, kind. His eyes, deep dark brown, seem open and welcoming and full of life.
I clear my throat, put a few inches of distance between by stepping closer to the lake. “It’s no excuse.”
“Sure it is.”
Silence.
“You, uh, wanna go for a drive?” he asks.
“A drive?”
“Sure. Just…away and back. Windows down, we can trade playlists.”
I smile. “I’d really like that.”
“Good.” He lifts the mimosa in his hand. “Maybe we plan on going after lunch, though. I’m feeling pretty good right now, don’t know about you.”
“Pretty good,” I say, smirking as I finish the last of mine. “But I think one more might go down real nicely.”
We don’t end up going for a drive.
We get to talking on the dock over one more mimosa, one more reveals that he actually bought two bottles of champagne, and then it’s noon and we’re cackling on the dock together, and I’m realizing I’m having fun. Real, actual fun. No strings, no expectations, no reminders of sad things, just conversation that goes from rabbit trail to funny story to rabbit trail to lists of favorite authors and favorite movies.
Despite having little to no formal education, I discover he’s widely read, and can discuss classics like Hamlet and Huckleberry Finn and The Three Musketeers as easily as he can the giants of science fiction and thrillers and everything in between.
At some point, he excuses himself to his cabin and returns with a giant block of Colby cheese, a package of deli salami, a jar of pickles, and a twelve-pack of beer. I excuse myself to my cabin and come back with bars of chocolate and my iPhone and a small Bluetooth speaker that Tess, for some reason, packed into my duffel bag, and we go into music lists, playing favorites from my library and then his.
Suddenly it’s sunset, and I don’t know where the hours went.
I’m sleepy.
We’ve been into discussions of classical, and I choose my favorite Bach cello suite played by Rostropovich. The music soothes and me and lulls me.
Him, too.
Conversation fades.
I feel him beside me, listening to the slow golden curving notes of the cello.
I sink into something like slumber, wherein I’m not fully asleep, but not awake either, just floating. Lilting on the cello and the alcohol and Nathan’s easeful presence and a day of sunshine and good food…
* * *
I wake up abruptly. I’m warm, covered.
My eyes open.
I’m in bed. On top of the covers, with my favorite blanket over me. I’m dressed as I was, minus my shoes.
He carried me to bed, covered me.
He was in my home.
Weird: this is home. It feels as much a home as my house back in the Atlanta suburbs.
&nb
sp; My emotions have never felt so complicated.
They are so complicated, in fact, that it’s easier to just go back to sleep and pretend everything is fine, fine, just fine.
I can lie to myself a little bit longer…can’t I?
Kintsugi Heart
Sleep tonight is a long, long time in coming.
So long, in fact, that tonight becomes tomorrow and then it’s dawn and I’ve been lying in my bed staring at the ceiling wrestling with those pesky motherfuckers, my emotions.
I like Nadia Bell.
A lot.
I like talking to her. I like having coffee with her. Eating food with her.
For the first time since Lisa died, I feel like life is worth living. Which makes me realize fully that I didn’t really believe it to be worth living up until now. I wasn’t living. I was just subsisting. Not dying. I was an automaton cycling through my programming, a clockwork golem clothed in skin and bones.
Nadia puts fire in my belly. Or, at least, a spark in my chest.
But that’s problematic at best. Because…Lisa.
She’s in me. She’ll always be in me. She’s woven into the DNA of who I am. Missing her is like breathing. She was my true love, my one and only. I promised her till death do us part, and I fucking meant it, goddammit, I just never anticipated that particular vow would be tested. Richer or poorer, sure; I’ve been poor my whole damn life, and while I wouldn’t mind trying rich I know it ain’t gonna fix the problems inside me. In sickness and in health, yeah. Easy. I’ll sit at her bedside and bring her soup and take her temperature and I’d even wipe her ass if I had to.
I didn’t get that. We got to be a little less poor, a little more comfortable. There were flus and stomach bugs, and blowout fights over dumb shit after which we made up delightfully, sinfully, endlessly.
But then she died, and she’s gone, and I vowed till death do us part. I vowed.
Death parted us.
I know, I know, I had that dream. But it was a stupid dream, dammit. It wasn’t really her, visiting me in my sleep. This ain’t Ghost. It was my subconscious playing idiotic games with me.
The Cabin Page 19