“I guess. But I can’t stand the idea of saying something’s my favorite, that this is the best a book can be, when there’s so much left to read.” I shrug. “Same with food. Actually more so with food. I’ve eaten a lot less great food than I’ve read great books.”
He watches me for a beat, then says, “I know a guy who could fix that.”
“Fix what? The existential bleakness underpinning my philosophy on favorites?” I shake my head. “I’m way too German for that to ever be fixed. It’s hardwired in my DNA.”
He cracks a smile. “I meant, the part where you said you’ve eaten a lot less great food than you’ve read great books.”
“Oh.” Warmth spills through me. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
I turn back to Mia, pushing her again, higher, like she asks. “It just seems like a lot of hassle.”
“Ted.” He laughs dryly. “Cooking is my passion.Andmy job. Which means, sometimes, I lose all passion for it and hate that it’s my job. Basically, it’s already a hassle. Cooking for the people I care about… helps.”
I glance his way. “How so, Chef?”
He leans against one of the metal poles anchoring the playground swing set, arms folded across his chest. “Why do you give me books, Ms. Bookseller?”
My cheeks heat. “I’ve only given you a couple.”
“Even higher, Thea!” Mia yells.
“Please,” Alex reminds her, but his eyes stay fixed on me.
“Please!” Mia shrieks.
Dutifully, I give her a strong push, sending her flying up, squealing with happiness.
“Because I love reading,” I tell him, “and I love that it’s my job to help the right book find the right reader, but sometimes my job is also a bunch of other grubby tasks that make me love my job a lot less and feel… distanced from what got me doing that work in the first place…”
“And?” he prompts.
A shiver runs down my spine. Sometimes I feel like Alex can read my mind, like he knows exactly where I’m going when I’m talking to him, almost before I do. Or maybe it’s that he listens closely, in a way I’ve never encountered in anyone else before, intensely focused, tracking every word. Maybe it’s simply unfamiliar to me not only to be listened to, but to feel heard.
“Giving books to people I care about,” I tell him, “it’s… a way to show people I care, that I’m thinking about them and hopefully giving them something that makes their lives better, even if only for a couple hundred pages. And maybe it’s selfish, but it helps me… fall in love again.” A beat passes, before I realize it’s probably best if I clarify. “In love withreading. Again.”
“So,” Alex says, “what you’re saying is, when you share your gift with the people who matter to you, it reminds you why you loved that gift in the first place. Is that right?”
“Yes,” I tell him quietly.
Alex pushes off the swing set, his gaze holding mine. “Then let me cook for you,” he says. “Because I care about you. And because… it’ll help me fall in love, too. With cooking. Again.”
Maybe he’s teasing me a little, mimicking my words, but it doesn’t sound like teasing. It sounds there’s something deeper beneath the surface of what he’s said; itfeelsthat way, as he steps closer, until we’re shoulder to shoulder.
For a moment, we stand there, side by side, watching Mia, wild-haired, legs kicking, full of joy, swinging up into the sky.
Alex glances my way and says, “Please?”
“Well, all right.” I lean into him, just the slightest, my shoulder pressed to his, and smile. “Since you asked nicely.”
My body is that delicious strain of sleepy from a taking a little too much sun and eating a little too much good food. I sit, elbows on Alex’s kitchen table, a handful of playing cards fanned in front of my face as I stare at Alex across from me.
Mia snores through the baby monitor, and I smile behind mycards. Her first snore was halfway through my first verse of the “I Am Here” StoryTime song.
“That kid was worn out,” I tell Alex.
“Took her long enough,” he says. “I spent so much energy wearing her out today,Iam worn out.”