I’d never realised until just now, and it’s like fifty layers of hard plastic crack open all at once, leaving me vulnerable, on display. I don’t want to cry, so I hold myself still, and hope I can swallow this pain in my chest so I can speak again.

  My reaction must have thrown him because he rushes out, “No pressure. It’s just dinner. I wasn’t… expecting anything from you.”

  “No. August, it’s not that.”

  “I’m…” He’s blushing deeper now, and I’m sure he’s thinking about last night too. The sound of his broken gasps falls over me, and I cannot believe I’m standing here in the presence of this man whom I’ve come to adore. And he’s doing all this for me. “It’s just casual. It’s just…”

  Then he grabs my hand gently, leans in, and drops the smallest, most fatal kiss on my cheek.

  I wish I could brand it on my skin.

  I’m a wreck for him. I want him more than breath itself. I cannot walk away. I can’t do this. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry.” He laughs lightly, places his pretty hand on his lovely chest. “I was going to get changed. I haven’t had a chance.”

  “Please don’t.” Again, and always with August, my words come too fast. I can’t hide a thing from him. Before I know it, my hand’s sunk into the soft and thick cotton at the groove of his hip, squeezing for the feel of him, for the comfort of him. He yields to me like he’s as desperate for this as I am, sweet lips upturned in open expectation, a movement that’s as natural for him as it is for me. I take his lips and press a long and lingering kiss, wishing it would be enough, wishing I could take that sensation with me for the rest of my life. That I could bottle this, bathe in it, wear it like perfume, that it would always surround me everywhere I go.

  Like I could ever get enough of August.

  But I have to. I’m leaving him. Tonight. Forever.

  I break the kiss as suddenly as I started it, the thought turning my face away from him. “Can I help?”

  There’s a hesitation, and his hand drops from my shirt, the little creases he made with his curling fingers precious in every rise and fall. I usually leave everything behind when I leap worlds, but I’ll keep this shirt. How long will it keep his scent?

  “You can. Um… You can… Want to lay them out for the grill?”

  “Okay.”

  I’m treating him horribly already. I know I am. Sending him mixed signals and barely able to string two words together. This wasn’t the plan. But he’s pulled the rug out from under me with this.

  I set about laying the thin slices of zucchini side by side on the baking paper. When I pick up the brush from the little bowl of olive oil, I can see it’s the same type Mum used to have. A harsh and sharp memory of doing this with her comes back to me. The way she’d let me paint the slices yellow. How pretty it was, how tactile, the feel of the oil between my fingers, the colourful drops on the countertop. The mess I’d never realised I was making for her, while she let me be near her, taught me these things that I’ve almost forgotten in all the years I’ve spent without a kitchen.

  Not August. It’s here in his mind and his kitchen, alive in him. It’s home, in every brush and stroke and chop and movement. He’s quiet next to me, Poison still turning around on the record player, soft and wonderful, and never a song I thought would become so instantly dear to me.

  “I got out at Camden and thought I’d just walk over. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I didn’t realise you were doing all this.”

  “It’s not much,” he says, as though he didn’t just hand me the world on a plate. “I thought… you’re always in that room, working. And I wonder how often you get to cook something.”

  “Never.”

  “So, I guess you get sick of eating out. And going places. And I just thought it might be nice.”

  Tears, vicious in my eyes, that I try to hide from him by lowering my head, concentrating on this simple task. “It’s really nice.”

  “I thought we could just do that. And maybe… maybe you want to see the proper Desperately Seeking Susan? We could put it on, and… Unless you wanted to go out? Or do something else. Or anything. I don’t mind.”

  “It’s perfect.” But this time I can’t keep the shake out of my voice. It breaks, and he’s looking at me, searching my features, and in half a second he’s slipped his arm beneath mine, pulled me around, and I’m in his arms. In his arms and home.

  He doesn’t say a word, and it pours out of me—all the sadness, all the anger, all the frustration at that one point in time when my whole world turned to shit. One second of bad timing from a bad driver that took both my parents and my whole life from me. That sent me down the dark path that destroyed me. That destroyed worlds. That brought me here, into the arms of this man, who’s the gentler, kinder version of me. Who I might have been. And I can’t hurt him. I can’t do it. I can’t and won’t let him down because he is me, but he’s a better me. And he deserves to be loved and protected in a way I never was. The way he’s protecting me now. And it’s breaking my heart.

  It’s an effort to loosen my fingers when I realise how hard I’m gripping him. I wipe my tears onto my sleeve, and the mortification drops my eyes closed so I don’t have to see his reaction.

  His hand lands on my cheek, soft, then drops away, and the gentle chop, chop of his knife on the board sets me free. So I grab the salt and start seasoning the zucchini.

  How can he make everything so easy? He’s like walking magic. He doesn’t even ask, just goes to the fridge and pulls out a bottle of white wine, pours out two glasses, and puts one near my hand.

  “You shouldn’t spend your money on me,” I tell him.

  “It’s nothing fancy.”

  “It’s…” My hand lands on the base of the glass, twisting it, the golden drink sparkling in the soft light just for a moment. Then I grab his hand instead, force myself to look into his eyes and speak the words I’ve been wanting to say to him all day. “You’re perfect. You’re the best man I’ve ever met. I’m falling for you in a way that I didn’t know was possible. And it’s breaking my heart that this is temporary. I don’t want to leave you.”

  “Then don’t leave.” His words and his eyes are clear and open and vulnerable. Gutting.

  “I don’t have a choice. It’s not up to me. But I wanted you to know that. There aren’t other men like you. There isn’t anyone like you.”

  The words hit him hard, the overwhelming emotion written in the colour of his cheeks, his eyes skittering away as if he’s looking for a way to deny what I’ve just said. He tries with a joke. “You’re a little bit like me.”

  “I’m not, though.” And the statement is both true and sad. “I wish I were like you. I wish I were half as clever and kind. And I’m certainly not as good-looking.”

  He laughs. “Stop it. Look at your glasses. You look so hot. And I’d kill for skin as nice as yours.”

  “Are you actually insane?”

  “I think I might be. I am sort of… I’m not going to say dating, I guess…” There’s a touch of melancholy in his tone, but not a hint of bitterness. “I’m seeing myself. I’m liking myself. I think I have a pretty fierce crush on myself. So maybe that would be considered insane. By some.”

  “I’m not you.” Not even a billionth as lovely as you.

  “But you still are. And I like you back. And if you’re telling me not to get feelings because you’re leaving soon…” He sneaks a slight look over at me. “Then it’s too late. But that’s okay. I’m just thankful for the time we have. Even if there isn’t much of it.”

  Feelings for me. For me. “I don’t want to let you down. I will disappoint you, August.”

  I’m about to go on, to try to get it out, but he cuts in before I can. “I don’t expect anything from you. Just so you know. I’m not asking you to be my partner or move in, or to do anything with me. I like spending time with you. It’s really that simple. You make me happy. And I don’t want you to think you’re responsible for my feelings or my choices. I know you have to go. I know you have work to do.” He laughs again, like he’s trying to break the tension that I know is all me. “So do me a favour and don’t break up with me because you’re worried about my feelings, okay? If you’re happy, then can we just be happy? For a few days or a few weeks?”

  You’re going to die.

  You’re going to be dead in two weeks.

  You’re going to be dead, and my heart is falling to pieces.

  “Is that ridiculous?” His question reminds me my thoughts are all internal turmoil. For him, this is as sweet as it should be for me. Making him happy. No strings attached.

  “If that’s what you want, then that’s what we’ll do,” I tell him. “I just don’t want to hurt you.”

  “You won’t. I’ve been through it with shit men, believe me. But I’m never letting that happen again.” He turns away, breaking a clove of garlic off the bulb. “For tonight, I’m liking the boyfriend experience.”

  A light laugh slips out of me. “Is that what this is?” I drop a kiss on his cheek, warmth spreading through every inch of me at the thought of it.

  Him. My boyfriend. The impossible.

  He turns his head towards me, leaning into the sensation. “Maybe. It’s easy with you. You make me happy.” He twists to catch my lips, a small peck.

  And that’s all it takes.

  The music moves on to the next track, the more upbeat if vastly inferior ‘Your Mama Don’t Dance.’ August’s cooking and singing, making small talk, and he’s right.

  This is easy.

  This is wonderful.

  This makes me happy.

  If I can only avoid thinking about what’s coming for both of us.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  GOOD AUGUST

  BOYFRIEND MATERIAL

  He likes me. He likes me back. He’s so hot, and he likes me back.

  I’m not going to think about any of what he said about us parting. I’m going to seduce him with cookery and hair metal, and he’s going to be mine.

  The beef skewers are almost ready. I ran out and got the beef this morning before work, leaving it marinating in garlic, lemon, and oregano all day. That should be nice. I got fresh bread on the way home, and I’ve got a salad almost ready. But I know the zucchini is the star of the day.

  I hadn’t expected him to react like that. Yet I’m glad he did. I’m glad I was there when he did. I’m glad I didn’t cry, for once. There’s something full circle about it, making the food that was provided for me, providing it for him. Taking that care and passing it on. To take care of myself in taking care of both of us. It feels right.

  All of this feels more right than anything I have ever experienced. That’s why it can’t end. Why I know it won’t end. August’s on it, and tomorrow, if he’ll let me, I’ll go back to his place and we’ll work again. And again. Until we crack this. I never thought I was a ‘love will find a way’ type of person, but maybe that’s what I am.

  Not that I’m calling it love, for the record.

  But it feels like it could be. One day. Maybe.

  All I know is right now there’s a hole in my heart when I think about him leaving. So I don’t. I take the wine and the plates and put them on the table, adding a candle for extra boyfriend-material points. He’s turning the beef while I dress the salad. The bread’s on the board. And he knows what comes next.

  When we take the zucchini from the oven, grilled and glistening strips, it’s a race against time to compile the thing and keep it hot.

  Five pieces laid side by side, August dollops on the Greek yogurt, sharp with lemon juice and raw garlic, seasoned and full of basil. He’s generous with it, as he should be, and it starts to melt on contact. I drop a shower of toasted pine nuts, then crisscross the next layer of zucchini on top, golden olive oil mixing with the charred zucchini and yoghurt, spilling down the side in rivers of flavour. Up and up, we build it high, a towering achievement of deliciousness, a monument to simple home cooking and the way those humble moments can become your whole world when they’re gone forever.

  Or when you thought they were.

  Not anymore.

  Now August’s got the meat, I’ve got the zucchini, and he’s shuffling things around to fit it on the tiny table. I’m having the first candlelit dinner of my life. With me. And I could not be happier.

  Not until we’re seated, and he lifts his wine glass, leans in, and says, “I’m so lucky to have met you. Thank you. For doing all of this.”

  “You did half of it.”

  His slanted smile and raised eyebrows suggest I’m maybe deflecting his compliments again.

  “I mean… Thank you for coming over. To share it with me. I hope you like it.”

  “I’d like anything you do.” He taps his glass to mine, then watches me drink while he does the same.

  The best thing is, I believe all these things he says. I don’t feel the tension of having made something for someone, wondering whether it will be good enough to impress them, to capture their attention, to keep them with me next time their phone buzzes. August doesn’t even have a phone. He’s completely in this room with me, not dreaming of his next trip away, and I’m sure he’s not thinking of anyone else. Not judging by the way his eyes run down my neck when I swallow.

  I want his tongue there. I want it everywhere.

  I start cutting into the zucchini pie, because everyone loves a man who can cook. But a man who can cook your favourite ever dish like a pro? Boyfriend material.

  Our plates are loaded. There’s a hesitating dance between me trying to act normal and not stare at him, and him waiting for me to start the meal.

  So, I go straight to the zucchini pie. The sharp knife glides through the layers like they’re air, brilliantly silken. He does the same, and my eyes flick up to his. He sees, and his smile, wide and bashful, lights my heart on fire.

  I go first, because that’s probably manners for a host, but he’s only seconds behind me. The flavours are balanced: sharp lemon, delicate grilled zucchini, unctuous yogurt and olive oil, the crunch of the earthy pine nuts. It’s a perfect mix, enhanced by a thousand memories.

  For the billionth time, I feel a simmering guilt for how often I turned Mum’s food down, picky child that I was. I wish she could have known how strong this memory of her is. What it means to me. I wonder if she ever did know.

  “That’s incredible.” August’s words are quiet, but firm. “It’s exactly the same. It’s the same flavour, and I never thought… I don’t think I realised how much I miss this.”

  “I’m so glad you like it.”

  “It’s the best thing I’ve had in years. Not since she was around.” He takes another bite. His eyes are glistening, but this time he’s not trying to hide it from me. I’m a mirror to him. But I’m not going to let him get down.

  “It’s underrated, don’t you think? If you tell someone the ingredients, it doesn’t sound like anything special. But when you stick them together, it’s alchemy.”

  “Magic.”

  “Science.”

  “Music.”

  A bewildered laugh bubbles up. “It’s all those things. It just takes a little care, and you can turn something humble into something incredible.”

  He takes a sip of wine, then looks down at his plate as he asks, “Do you make it often?”

  I’m oddly relieved that I can tell him, “No. It’s special to me. I don’t make it for anyone because I don’t want to give it to someone who wouldn’t understand.”

  Another smile and a lingering look. Always that sadness in his eyes. It is a sad thing, this dinner. A bittersweet thing. But it’s always there. And I want to pluck it out of him.

  “I never made it for Jon. Not once.” I’m embarrassed at the way that spilled out of me, so I throw in, “He doesn’t eat vegetables anyway.”

  August laughs in response, a light scoff.

  “I ditched him last night, by the way. After I left you. I told him to keep the key, and that I never wanted to see him again. And I feel great.”

  He settles his wine glass on the table. “How long were you together?”

  “Seven years.”

  “Fuck!” he announces, and fair enough too.

  “On and off. I won’t say it was a waste, because I learned a lot. But funnily enough, I’ve learned more with you in the past few days than seven years with him taught me.”

  His smile turns quizzical, a gleam in his eyes. “What did you learn?”

  “That I like nice men.” Fuck, do I look that pretty when I blush? Christ, I hope so. “And if you leave⁠—”

  “When I leave.” He corrects me softly but starkly.

  I chew over the words, “When you do, I’m… I’m not dating anyone, I think. I’m just not interested. Not unless it can be like this. Not unless I can make them nice things and have them understand.”

  I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve gone too far. He’s not my boyfriend. I haven’t known him long. Maybe it’s not the smoothest move to drop something like that on him.

  Maybe he’s desperate to get out of here now.

  Christ, I’ve blown the whole thing already and made this awkward as fu⁠—

  “Can I ask you something?”

  The meal turns to lead in my stomach. “Of course.”

  “If you were going to die, would you want to know?” He stares dead into my eyes, like my answer is somehow incredibly important.

  “Well, that just got dark.”

  “I’m sorry.” He laughs, but there isn’t much humour behind it.

  I guess we are eating our dead mother’s favourite dish, so it’s no surprise he might be thinking morbid thoughts. He expands a little, “I sometimes wish I’d said things to them before they went. But that’s because I went on. We went on. And I feel like they might have wanted to say things to us too.”

  “They might have liked to,” I reply softly. “But I think we know what they’d have said. Because they said it all when they were living. And for me, so long as I’m like that…” I take a sip of wine while I consider the idea. “No, I don’t think I’d want to know if I was going to die.”