Vaughn
Robin cries during a documentary about French pastry.
We're on the couch — him tucked against my chest under the cloud blanket, pain pills and water on the coffee table, his bandaged hand propped on a pillow between us. This documentary was his pick. Some French guy with a white hat and an accent so thick the subtitles struggle is demonstrating how to make a perfect pâte à choux, and Robin is weeping.
"It's the technique," he says, wiping his eyes with his good hand. "Look at his hands. Look at that fold. That's sixty years of muscle memory. That's — god, that's beautiful."
"It's dough."
"It's not DOUGH, you philistine. It's art. It's a lifetime. Every fold is a decision. Every lamination is a choice." He sniffs. "Sorry. The drugs make me emotional."
"The drugs make you emotional about pastry."
"Pastry is emotional."
I pull him closer. He burrows into me, and I feel the moment his attention shifts from the screen to me — the subtle change in his breathing, the way his good hand moves from wiping his eyes to resting on my chest.
"You know what I keep thinking about?" he says.
"Pastry?"
"The intake forms. At the ER." He doesn't look up. "There's a line for emergency contact. I wrote N/A."
My chest tightens. "Yeah."
"N/A. Like I don't have anyone. Like I'm some — orphan drifting through the world with no one to call." His fingers trace a pattern on my shirt. "I have a brother who bought a house for me. A best friend who'd drive across the state at 3 AM. A boyfriend who makes terrible eggs and wears my stupid apron. And I wrote N/A because I was too scared to put your name on a form."
"You were protecting yourself."
"I was being an idiot. Next time—" He stops. Corrects himself. "If there's ever a next time, you're my emergency contact. You're my person. The one they call."
"Robin, you don't have to—"
"I want to. I want your name on every form. I want the nurse to call you and you to show up in that leather jacket looking grumpy and beautiful and someone hands you my stuff and you sit in the plastic chair and hold my hand. I want that."
This man. This impossible, infuriating, extraordinary man who couldn't cuddle after sex three weeks ago is lying onmy chest declaring me his emergency contact like it's a marriage proposal.
"Okay," I say. "I'm your emergency contact."
"Good." He settles back down. "Now shut up, the choux is going in the oven."
Lunch is sandwiches. I make them while Robin sits at the breakfast bar, supervising with the authority of someone who has opinions about how bread should be sliced.
"Thicker. You want structural integrity."
"It's a sandwich, not a building."
"Everything is architecture. A sandwich is just a horizontal layer cake with savory components."
"You're insane."
"I'm a professional." He steals a piece of cheese before I can put it on the bread. "Also, you're using too much mustard."
"I like mustard."
"There's 'I like mustard' and there's 'I want my mouth to feel like it's been attacked.' You've crossed the line."
I add more mustard out of spite. He watches, appalled, and steals another piece of cheese.