Emma raises her piece without any trouble holding her chopsticks and moves it toward me, as if she’s going to feed me. Then she stops halfway through, looking at me expectantly. I give her a puzzled look. “Cheers with me,” she says, smiling.
I raise my piece too, and we touch them together and then dip them slightly in the soy sauce and chew slowly. I usually love big, extravagant flavors, unapologetic spice and heat. But I respect the subtlety of this, how unencumbered the taste of one piece of fish can be.
“One of my goals in life is to always have a toast ready, for any occasion,” Emma says, when she’s done chewing. “I think Ireland is high on my list of places to travel to, ’cause I picture them just toasting everything, every moment of the day. It’s sunny! We have a toast for that. This coffee is particularly good! We have a toast for that.”
The plates get whisked away in an instant, and the chef is looking at the galore of fish in front of him, trying to decide what comes next.
“Do you know any?”
“Toasts?” She takes a sip of water, thinks about it. “Of course I can’t remember any on the spot, but I’ve definitely Googled the shit out of this.” Someone in the restaurant erupts in laughter, and I turn around to see who. Dudes in suits raise sake glasses, laugh with their mouths full. Two women watch as their friend tries what looks like sea urchin, eyebrows high, waiting for a reaction. Life between the cracks of everything. “Oh, I know!” Emma reaches into her purse and pulls out a flask.
“You carry around a flask with you?”
“Yeah, for exactly this sort of occasion.” She raises it up but not too high so as not to arouse suspicion. Then she continues in a pretty solid Irish accent. “‘There are several good reasons for drinking, and one has just entered my head. If a man can’t drink when he’s living, then how the hell can he drink when he’s dead?’” She takes a pull from the flask and then passes it on to me. “I figured it’d be appropriate, in a way. For your brother.”
She smiles, and I try to ignore the fact that the wasabi has just shaped itself into Felix and is trying to high-five me. “I like this girl,” the wasabi squeaks and then goes back to being a little green blob. I’ve been seeing so much less of him lately.
About seventeen dishes later, Emma and I have pushed our stools away from the bar, as if we’re begging for mercy and distance is the only way they can express it. We try to finish the green tea ice cream in front of us but have to moan each bite down.
When we leave the restaurant, Emma reaches out to squeeze my hand, and I feel like I’ve been fully forgiven, like the night has done what I wanted it to. “I wish more places were like this,” she says a moment later. “Like, forget what I want. You’re the expert. Shove a bunch of food in my face and then I’ll tell you what I liked best.”
I laugh, pull her closer to me. We’re not in a particularly pretty part of downtown Seattle, but the night feels perfect. It’s moments like these when people say stupid, rushed things to each other. Instead I bring our clasped hands up to my mouth and kiss each of her knuckles.
“So, my dad’s coming into town next weekend,” Emma says on the labored walk back to the harbor. “Some special event thing that he wants me to come to. He’s receiving an award, I think. Or maybe cooking for someone important. He’s the worst phone-mumbler, so I don’t actually have any idea what it’s for.”
I laugh. “That’s cool that he wants you to come, though. Do you get to see him much?”
“No, so it’s cool that he invited me. Except...” She sighs. “I know he’s just trying to apologize for last time, and he’s gonna be running around schmoozing. I’m gonna be left alone with a bunch of adults feeling uncomfortable and abandoned for three hours.”
“That doesn’t sound fun.”
“No,” she says. “It’s like my childhood all over again.” She’s looking down at her feet as she walks, kicking pebbles, running her thumb over mine while we hold hands. “Could you come with me?”
“To your dad’s thing?”
“Yeah. He’ll be thrilled for the excuse to not actually spend time with me. I’ll be thrilled because I’ll actually enjoy myself with you there.”
I stop walking, step in front of her while hanging on to her hand. I may not have been Dad’s biggest fan since I left, but I can’t imagine what a whole lifetime of disappointment would feel. “Hell yes,” I say. We kiss, and again I’m completely aware of being exactly where I am: alive, with her.
That night, in my bed, Emma takes my shirt off. It’s an incredible feeling, nervousness in this situation. I thought I’d left that in the past. Nervousness was for someone who had not yet lived out fantasies, someone who hadn’t seen tragedy, or magic. I’m eager, of course, but anxious. Not just about the ways my body might betray me, but in how I might disappoint Emma, in ways I can’t even predict.
We don’t have too many more nights like this left. Emma won’t be here for long. But I don’t feel like rushing myself, and I don’t want to rush Emma at all. I let her advance things as she likes and am thankful that she seems to savor the steps in between one thing and the next. I’m thankful for time, however much of it she and I will have. The feel of flesh on flesh, every new part of it. The exquisite sensation of previously unexposed skin, seen for the first time, felt, kissed, held. Nakedness for the first time. Love, if that’s what this is.
There’s something here that’s unlike every other time. Something in her lips and how they fit into mine. The joy of someone who moves when you do. Who knows when to touch, and where, and how, even if there’s a lot of fumbling about.
A part of me is aware of my phone ringing somewhere nearby. But somewhere nearby probably means not on this mattress, which means it’s in a different world, a much less important and far-off one. I press myself harder against Emma, and she gives out a soft moan, beckoning me even closer.
CHAPTER 25
PAN DE MUERTO
4 cups flour
1 tablespoon active dry yeast
? cup water
3 eggs
3 tablespoons orange zest
? cup sugar
? teaspoon salt
? cup orange blossom water
? cup butter
METHOD:
I wake up, disentangling myself from the bedsheets and my dreams. I get dressed and leave the house even earlier than I have to.