The Pairing(95)

I ponder this. “You know, I think I assumed you would be a red, but that’s perfect for you.”

“Oh, Kit. You are a red.”

“I’m a red? Why?”

“Come on. Deep, indulgent, immortalized in a million Renaissance paintings, made to be poured between ass cheeks at a bacchanal. You’re a red.”

“That does sound like me,” I say, nodding thoughtfully. “But a light-bodied red.”

“I’d say medium-bodied but light on its feet. Fruity.”

“Naturally.”

“French. Rh?ne-adjacent. If you’re a grape, you’ve got to be Gamay.”

“I’ve heard of that one. What’s it like?”

“Well, versatile, first of all.”

“Famously.”

“Notes of pomegranate and raspberry. Soil. A lot of flowers too. Peony, iris.” With a significant look, they add, “Violets, actually.”

“You’re very good at this. You do know that, don’t you?”

“It’s weird. I think I might almost be . . . afraid to be good at it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been thinking about something,” they tell me. “Today, at the Borghese, I was like, what if I pick one thing in this gallery and spend the whole time with it? Instead of speeding through the entire museum for a hundred five-second hits of dopamine, what if I stand here and let this be the only thing I experience?”

“And how did that feel?”

“It felt . . . uncomfortable. Boring. And then I started to see things I hadn’t noticed, like the details of the leaves, and the straps of the sandals. And I thought about how long it must have taken to sculpt, and to build up the skill to sculpt something like it, so I looked up Bernini.”

“You looked up Bernini,” I repeat, disbelieving. “After you made me have a Bernini jar.”

“I know! But I looked him up, and he started sculpting when he was eight. Eight! He drew a little and did some architecture, but it was sculpting that he devoted his entire life to, until he was eighty-one years old. And then I thought about Gaudí with Sagrada Familia. And I started thinking about having a thing that you throw your entire self behind, and about my sisters, and my parents, and how they’ve always had that, and they’ve never questioned it and always succeeded at it. And I was like, what’s my thing?”

A waiter drops off our wine, a red Theo chose. They present the bottle to Theo and let them taste. Theo approves, so they pour.

“You were saying,” I prompt when the waiter is gone. “Your thing.”

“Right, so, first it was being the oldest child, and I mean, obviously I spectacularly failed at that.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Did you?”

“Come on,” Theo says with a roll of their eyes. “Sloane is everything the oldest should be. Brave, dependable—”

“Protector, leader, setter of examples?” I suggest. “I distinctly remember you being all of those things for at least one person. Me.”

“Maybe so,” Theo says, coloring faintly. “Or—yeah, I guess I was. But still. It was— I failed at being the firstborn Flowerday. I wasn’t needed. I didn’t have the family gifts. That’s what I mean.”

“Okay,” I say, still unhappy with this characterization but curious to see where Theo is going. “I understand what you’re saying.”

“And so for a while my thing was house parties, and we all know how that went, and then it was swimming, and that was supposed to be the big one, so I went too hard and fucked my body up and lost that too. And after that, I think I got scared, and so I started putting a little bit of myself into a lot of things instead of all of myself into one thing. Like if I’m always just starting something, I can always be in that beginning stage when it’s shiny and new and full of possibility, and if I never try to finish, I never get to the part where I fuck it up.”

In all the years I wished for Theo to commit to being happy, I never thought to consider it this way, but it makes sense.

“So,” I say, “where does this leave you?”

They sip, and they consider.

“Ask me a different question,” they say. “Ask me what you asked me yesterday.”

I lean back in my chair.

“Theo,” I say. “What do you want?”

“I think what I want most of all,” Theo says, “is . . . peace.”

“Peace,” I repeat slowly.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever let myself have peace. I thought staying in one place my whole life would do it, but maybe I won’t know peace until I choose one thing I want to do and put everything I have behind it and see it through. Even if I fuck it up beyond repair, even if I embarrass myself and my family and have to go live off the grid on Calum’s shark-research boat. At least I’ll finally know how it goes.”

I want to take Theo’s hand and tell them how long I’ve waited for them to decide this for themself. To believe in it. Instead, I satisfy myself with imagining leaving my life in Paris, chasing whatever dream Theo chooses. I picture myself balancing the budget for Theo’s bus bar, or kissing Theo’s hair while they make study cards for the master sommelier exam, or replacing the new pastry chef at Timo that Theo doesn’t like. I could be happy there, as long as Theo wanted me with them.