I’ve seen Alex cook at home so many times, but watching him cook in his restaurant is new. It’s tender, vulnerable. He’s just dipping his toes back in the professional kitchen waters.
After a long stretch of silence, I ask him, “What’s for dinner?”
“Chicken piccata,” he says.
My heart jumps in my chest. That’s one of my favorites. The first chicken dish he taught me how to cook. Sliding off the stool, I reach for an apron from a neatly folded stack. And then I walk over to the handwashing station. “Mind if I join in, Chef?”
Alex glances over his shoulder, and my breath catches. The sharp line of his profile, the furrow in his brow, the beads of sweat on his skin from the heat he’s bent over.
A small smile lifts the corner of his mouth. “Wouldn’t mind at all.”
Bellies full of chicken piccata, gelato cups in hand, Alex and I stand at the intersection down the street from his restaurant, waiting to cross. The park we’re headed toward technically closes at dusk, but there’s a worn-smooth wood bench beneath a two-story birch tree at its entrance, waiting for us.
Alex nudges my shoulder with his. “Ted.”
“Hmm?” My eyes are shut, tart-sweet key lime gelato melting on my tongue. “Time to cross?”
“Not yet,” he says. “You take your lactase pill?”
“Yep.” The pedestrian light flashes on, and we step out into the crosswalk. “Thanks for asking. I do feel like you missed an opportunity, though, to call me Gramps, with the lactase pill check-in.”
“True.” His gaze zigzags across the road, watching for cars as we cross. “Guess I’m not on my game today.”
I glance his way, cataloging the visual confirmation that my hunch was right, that something is upsetting Alex—shoulders curled in, jaw tight.
We step up onto the curb, headed toward the bench.
“Hey.” I nudge his shoulder with mine.
He doesn’t look my way. He’s stirring his zabaione gelato so vigorously, it’s turning into zabaione soup. “Hmm?”
We drop onto the bench—which is more like a one and half seater than two—our hips, elbows, and shoulders pressed against each other. I swallow, nervous, and peer down at my gelato as I ask him, “What’s wrong?”
In my peripheral vision, I watch him freeze, then slowly peer up at me. He clears his throat, then says, “What makes you think something’s wrong?”
“I don’tthink. I know. I know you, Alex. I know when you’re upset. What I don’t know is the reason…” I bite my lip. “If it’s my fault.”
Alex freezes again, midstir. Silence stretches out in thick, slow seconds. He resumes stirring and says, “No, Ted. It’s not your fault.”
I hiss out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding while waiting for him to answer. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Nah.” He tips back his cup of gelato soup and takes a swig. “Talked about it with Atlas.”
“Oh.” I shouldn’t be disappointed. It’s good that he talked to his therapist, that he had someone to help him work through whatever’s upsetting him. But selfishly, now that I know I’m not to blame, I wish he’d want to share that with me, too. “That’s good,” I tell him. “Was it helpful?”
Alex sinks back into the bench, legs outstretched, and crosses his ankles. He nods. “Yeah. Talking to Atlas always helps.”
I poke at my gelato. “I still can’t believe you have a therapist named Atlas.”
“Ichosemy therapist because he was named Atlas.”
A laugh jumps out of me. I’ve never heard this. “Why?”
“It’s a badass name,” Alex says. “Did I picture my badass therapist named Atlas being older than my dad and fond of bow ties? No. But the guy’s definitely delivered on the badassery.”
“I mean, that’s how I chose my therapist, too—badass-name vibes.”
He snorts. “Nothing says ‘badass’ like the name Susan.”