The lights in Nanette’s flicker to life, and I think I scare the shit out of the employee who spots me right outside the window, dripping in sweat, breathing heavily, my hair messily half-tied back to keep it out of my face.
I couldn’t sleep. So I read in bed, then I used my makeshift garage gym and lifted weights until my muscles couldn’t take any more. The moment the sun started to glow on the horizon, I got on a train into the city and ran Kate’s neighborhood until it was time for Nanette’s to open. I’m sleep-deprived, my body shaking from too many reps, too many miles, but my mind is crystal clear, one single thing its focus— Kate.
My head says that this is madness. My heart says that this was inevitable, that the moment I let myself get close enough, the moment Kate touched me like she did yesterday, the moment she gave me just a sliver of her fiercely guarded heart, which I’ve spent so long trying not to want, trying not to get too close to, there’d be no stopping myself.
I’m not thinking about everything that used to hold me back. I’m not thinking about everything I’m still afraid of. I’m only thinking about her.
Which is why I’m standing outside Nanette’s at the ass crack of dawn in the morning, then opening the door the moment it’s unlocked, the first customer to walk in. Promptly, I order a box filled with the doughnuts I know she loves, every autumn recipe rebelling against the Christmas flavors that shouldered their way in the day after Thanksgiving. No chocolate and peppermint or gingerbread and eggnog for Kate. She loves pumpkin pie and spiced apples, cinnamon and maple syrup, everything that reminds her of the grandeur of turning leaves, the cozy joy of starlit bonfires and sipping mugs of cider, the quiet beauty of waking up to a misty autumn morning.
And so, even though we’re well on our way toward Christmas, I buy a box of autumn doughnuts and a pumpkin pie for good measure, then walk out and make my way toward her apartment, an unseasonably mild December wind whipping my workout clothes against my body, sunrise’s golden rays spilling across the pearly blue sky.
With quiet feet, I take the stairs up to the Wilmot sisters’ apartment and let myself in. The main room and kitchen are tidy and dark, how we left them after making pasta, eating, then cleaning up.
Bea’s door is still open, which is no surprise, since Kate said last night that her sister planned to stay at Jamie’s.
And Kate’s door is still shut.
I stare at it with a kind of longing that feels like a hook in my heart, reeling me toward it.
Instead of obeying that tug, I step into the kitchen, set the doughnuts and pie on the counter, then prep the coffee I know Kate wanted but forgot to set up. I grind beans, muffling the grinder’s noise by running it inside my hoodie, then I pour in filtered water. I set the coffee maker to brew at eight, which seems safe, since she said she works at the Edgy Envelope today, and I know they open at nine.
Then I locate one of Bea’s colorful pens on the coffee table and write in electric blue letters on the doughnut box—
These are for breakfast. Have some milk with them, while you’re at it.
—C
I set down the pen, then walk to the door, forcing myself past it, to pull it shut and lock it, triple-checking it’s secure.
Down the stairs, out the door, I stop outside her building, greeted by dawn’s progress. Like a fire finally caught, its flames fan across the sky, burning away the shadows.
I stare at the sunrise and feel its transformation inside me, too—a spark of hope, once only the faintest flame surrounded by darkness, now glowing, growing.
Brightening to an unrelenting blaze.
* * *
—
I’m buried in paperwork at the office hours later when my phone dings with a new-message alert. There is no dignity in how quickly I drop what I’m doing and scramble for my phone.
KATE: Donuts & pumpkin pie are for whatever meal I say they are, Petruchio.
I smile, unlocking the screen so I can answer her.
CHRISTOPHER: You had leftover pasta for breakfast instead, didn’t you?
KATE: Hell yes, I did. So damn good, even cold.
CHRISTOPHER: Cold? Christ, Kate. Why?
KATE: I was running late. I dumped some in a container & ate it on my walk.
CHRISTOPHER: Every Italian ever is rolling in their grave, mourning that you ate and walked.
KATE: I am aware it’s a cultural faux pas, but I’m sorry, there are Italians with ADHD, & I guarantee you they walk & eat. They probably just hide their food in their pockets like chipmunks, shoving it in their mouth when no one’s watching.
I snort.
CHRISTOPHER: I didn’t know chipmunks had pockets.
KATE: Shut up. You know what I mean. ANYWAY. Thank you for the treats from Nanette’s. I packed some for lunch, so even though I had pasta for breakfast, your generosity did not go to waste.
CHRISTOPHER: Tell me you at least had some milk, too.
KATE: Listen, Dad, if I did have milk w/ my donuts & pie, it would be because I enjoy milk w/ donuts & pie, not because you told me to. However, if I didn’t have milk, it might be because I can’t stand cow milk & I’m trying not to drink almond milk since an almond requires an atrocious amount of water to grow, so if I drink a cup of almond milk, I’m sucking up a bunch of water from some poor California grandma’s yard & now I’ll feel personally responsible if it succumbs to wildfires.
KATE: Also, I might have forgotten my lunchbox full of donuts and pie at the apartment. But never fear, I’m eating them now. I left work at 2 & now I’m home alone, sprawled on the couch in my underwear, happily covered in Nanette’s pastry crumbs.
I groan as I picture that. Kate’s long legs stretched out on the sofa, swinging and bouncing like they always do. Probably a mismatched pair of fuzzy socks on her feet, cheeky panties that hug her sweet little ass. An oversized sweatshirt draping down her body yet unable to hide the fact that she’s not wearing a bra, not when her nipples do what they did last night and poke right into the fabric, begging for my mouth to suck and tease them, until she’s panting, squirming— My phone dings, wrenching me out of my lusty thoughts. I clear my throat and read her text.
KATE: Well, I just verbal vomited. Kindly delete this text thread & pretend it never happened.
CHRISTOPHER: Even if I did, text messages might last only a minute, Katydid, but screenshots last forever.
KATE: Listen, Topher Gopher. I can’t find my meds right now, so I’m a little more labially liberated today. Don’t tease me about it. It’s ableist.
A laugh jumps out of me so loud, I hear Curtis startle outside my office and drop something.
CHRISTOPHER: “Labially liberated”?? Where do you come up with this shit?
KATE: Come up with what? Labial means lips. Ask the New York Times Crossword. “Labially liberated” is my fancy way of saying I’m loose lipped.
CHRISTOPHER: My mind goes somewhere else when you talk about liberated labia, that’s all.
KATE: CHRISTOPHER PETRUCHIO YOU PHILANDERING PHILANDERER THIS CONVERSATION IS TERMINATING IMMEDIATELY.
Choking down a laugh, then taking a deep, steadying breath, I type my response.
CHRISTOPHER: I’m sorry. That was inappropriate of me.
KATE: You’re lucky I liked the donuts & pumpkin pie & the pasta you made. Consider yourself forgiven.
CHRISTOPHER: Thank you. I promise next time I see you, I’ll be on my best behavior.
KATE: I can’t promise the same, because I’m me & life’s too short to be well-behaved. If I can find my meds, I’ll at least be better at avoiding alliterative slips of the innuendo variety.
My phone dings with a new message preview, and I tap on it to read it fully.
JAMIE: We’re on for this Saturday, 4 pm, at Peace, Love, and Paintball with the usual motley crew. Bea invited Bianca and Nick too, but Bianca opted not to come because she said she doesn’t trust Kate with projectiles around Nick yet, which I’m inclined to agree is wise.