The Pairing(117)

They let out a huge breath, as if they’ve been holding it since I opened the door. Bright tears blaze in their eyes. Their hair is dirty from traveling, their face red from running, and if I could commission an oil painting of them in this state of absolute, screaming perfection, I would.

“Also,” Theo says. “It would be so great if I could crash on your couch tonight, because the next flight out is tomorrow.”

“Theo,” I say. My voice shakes. Every nerve in my body sings together a three-movement opera. “Fuck the couch. Come get in my bed.”

And, with all the momentum of twenty years and a hundred thousand miles, Theo smashes into me.

The force of their kiss knocks me backward into my apartment, toppling the shoe rack and at least two of Thierry’s hand-thrown vases, which shatter on the floor by our feet. I barely notice. I’ll make it up to him. Right now, I’m being thrown up against the wall, and I’m fisting my hands in Theo’s hair, and I’m kissing them like we’re twenty-two again, courageous and astonished and pushing our luck. I’m kissing them like we’re twenty-four, full of dreams and fears, and like we’re twenty-six, lost in each other’s memory. I kiss them like now, twenty-eight, wiser and steadier and evolved and still so fucking gone for each other.

“To be clear,” Theo gasps, breaking away from my mouth, “when you said you were going to the airport—”

“I was coming to get you,” I say. “You keep beating me to it.”

“Nice. I love winning,” Theo replies, smiling hysterically. They’re still wearing their backpack. I think I might be stepping on my passport. “And that means you—you feel the same—”

“I love you,” I say. “I want you back.”

“And you’re not going to change your mind in the morning?”

“Theo.” I look directly into their brilliant, searching eyes. “If a priest lived in this building, I would take you to his door right now and tell him to marry us.”

“Oh,” Theo says. “I was thinking it’d be fun if Fabrizio officiated.”

“You were—” My heart stammers. They’re not even joking. “There are so many things I want to ask you, but Theo, I swear to God, if you don’t get in my bed right now I will die.”

So we go, Theo’s pack thrown down on the carpet, shoes kicked off into different corners, clothes removed so quickly that buttons go flying and skittering across the floor. Theo kisses me hard enough to bruise, and I’m so thankful, I’m so fucking unbelievably, shatteringly thankful for this.


The next morning, I wake Theo up with cinnamon rolls.

“You finally found the perfect recipe,” they say after their first bite. They’re resplendent, sitting in my kitchen chair wearing nothing but a pair of my underwear, hair matted in the back from sex.

“This is the same recipe I used the first morning we were together,” I tell them.

“Oh. Well. Maybe that’s why I like it so much.”

I place a cup of black coffee beside their plate, following their gaze to the kitchen wall next to the chalkboard.

“I can’t believe you bought one of those,” they say, smiling at the calendar I brought back from a roadside souvenir stand in Rome, the one featuring a hot priest for every month. “Wait, what am I saying—of course you did. You’re Kit.”

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” I say, kissing their temple. Then I look more closely at the calendar and realize the date. “Wait, Theo, weren’t you supposed to take the somm exam today?”

They reach for the sugar bowl and dump a spoonful into their cup.

“I think I know what I want my one thing to be,” they say. “And I don’t know that I need to pass a test to do it.”

I sit in the chair beside theirs, holding my coffee cup between my palms, letting its warmth spread into me.

“Tell me.”

“Imagine a bar,” Theo begins, “but it’s also a bakery. New menu every week, only five or six special items dependent on what’s in season, plus a permanent selection of local staples. French-focused, but with Spanish and Italian elements. Everything sourced directly through personal relationships with farms, vineyards, fishmongers, chocolatiers, bakers. And the concept is, every dish is designed to pair with a drink. A customized cocktail, a specifically chosen glass of wine. Every pairing is designed to tell a story, so when you order, you’re ordering a full experience.”

I nod. I adore this idea. “And what’s this place called?”

“I was thinking,” Theo says, “Field Day.”

It dawns on me slowly. Fairfield. Flowerday. Fairflower was our first dream. This could be our new one.

“If you want,” Theo adds. “It’s just an idea. I don’t even know where we could open it.”

I look at Theo, bathed in morning glow, and I picture them in the sea with me, swimming back to each other, meeting again and again. I see sand as white and fine as sugar.

“I might have a suggestion.”





EPILOGUE





Notes on aroma, Saint-Jean-de-Luz on a winter morning:

Cold, crisp seawater. Fresh linens, washed just yesterday, already mingled with lavender and neroli. Yeast, bread crust, brown butter, lemon rind, thyme dried by the sun in a kitchen window. Wet paint and sawdust from the turn-ups of my jeans, the apricot jam Kit brought back from Les Halles for me when I was too busy under a sink with a wrench to go grocery shopping. Possibility.