“Hi.” Sam Woods stood a few feet away. A snappy little zing, like a wave of unexpected citrus, zipped around her chest.
“Oh, hi.” She repressed the instinct to hug him, instead offering a small wave. She wasn’t expecting to see him in person until the Fitzpatrick-Maple wedding next month. A mental scan of her outfit confirmed a slouchy jersey jumpsuit and old yellow sneakers. Possibly hairy armpits. Definitely no makeup. Could be better but had been worse. The days of leaving the house in her bathrobe were thankfully in the rearview mirror.
Sam was in a ’Shwick Chick T-shirt and broken-in blue jeans. A shopping basket swung from his forearm. His biceps bulged modestly. The chef nodded at the pineapple. “Looks like you’re making a momentous decision.”
“I can’t tell if it’s ripe.”
He tugged at one of the spiky leaves. It didn’t budge. “Nope.” He selected another one. This time, the leaf came off easily. “That’s how you can tell.”
“So wise.” Liv put the pineapple she assumed she was now purchasing into her basket. “What other tricks have you got up your sleeve?”
Sam selected a cantaloupe. “This should feel heavier than it looks.” He weighed it in his palm. “And it should smell sweet.” Raising it to his nose, he sniffed. “I’d say this one is pretty much perfect.”
She took it. Not because she was planning on making a fruit salad, although that was clearly how this shopping expedition was going to turn out. Because of those kind, crinkly eyes that seemed, for some strange reason, to like what they saw. “How about some cherries? I love cherries.”
“Hm, they’re not quite at their peak yet. But I’ll keep an eye out.” He selected a few organic apples for his basket. “How’s Big Ben?”
“Good. At my mother’s tonight, getting spoiled rotten in between anecdotes about the Holocaust. How’s Dottie?” Liv asked, more surprised than pleased that she’d remembered Sam’s daughter’s name.
“Great. Very into Peppa Pig. With her mom this weekend.”
“That must be tough.” Liv had ruminated on what would’ve happened if Eliot had recovered. She had no idea if they’d have gotten a divorce or tried to figure it out.
“At least we’re still friendly.” Sam grabbed a knob of garlic. Bits of papery white skin floated to the floor. “I’ve known couples where it got really ugly. Then it’s really hard on the kids. Claudia—that’s my ex—we still do Christmas and birthdays and school stuff together.”
“How mature.” A word that probably would not have been applied to a separation from Eliot. Her gorgeous, gregarious husband had been funny and frank and always the first on the dance floor. But he was also irresponsible, unreliable, and self-centered. A hypochondriac who regularly diagnosed indigestion as stomach cancer. An extrovert who needed constant stimulation. Around Eliot, Liv was always on. So now, without his enormous, unwieldy needs, she had time for her own. Needs like the time to sit. To let long thoughts unspool. So the question was:
“What do you need?”
Liv blinked twice. She hadn’t been saying all that out loud, had she? “Me?”
“Do you have a list, or is it all up here?” Sam tapped his temple. “In that brilliant brain of yours?”
Liv used to make shopping lists, itemized and neatly printed. She’d get back in that habit. She liked having a list. “I think I want to make a pie.”
“Ooh, nice. What kind?”
“When I was a kid, my mom would put a tin of condensed milk in boiling water until it turned into caramel. She’d pour it into a pie shell and serve it with vanilla ice cream. It was outrageously good.” Liv looked up at the man next to her. How strange to have a desire for something and state it out loud. Conjuring the abstract into matter. “I think I want to make that.”
“Well then,” said Sam, looking around. “Let’s find the baking aisle.”
They finished their shopping together, conversation skating around topics like cooking and kitchen staples. Safe topics: Sam was a vendor, and she was a business owner trying to repair her company’s reputation. But he was so easy to talk to, she kept forgetting they weren’t old friends. Being with Eliot had been like wearing couture. Being with Sam was like slipping into comfy sweats.
Outside, they were going opposite directions. “Nice to run into you.” She hitched her tote bags of ripe fruit and pie crusts over her shoulder. “See you at the Fitzpatrick-Maple wedding.”
He dawdled. “Yes, see you then.”
She gave him a nod, and took a few steps in the direction of her car.
“Do you want to get dinner with me?”
The question came so unexpectedly, it pulled her up short. “What, like… like, a date?”
“No! I mean, yes. Yes, like a date. You and me. Eating. Me paying for eating. Unless you want to split, which would also be”—Sam drew in a breath, face starting to flame—“highly acceptable. Not right this second. Just… soon.”
The concept of a date was akin to alien technology. Everything about it felt beyond the realm of comprehension. “When?”
“Whenever. Wednesday?”
“Oh, Wednesday I have a thing.” Liv was surprised to find herself lying, each word layered on top of the last like a messy brick wall. “A cooking class. I mean, a yoga class. A hot yoga class where you cook a hot meal after.”
“Liv, it’s fine.” Sam retreated a step, his smile wounded but intact. “My apologies. I misread… I won’t mention it again. Good night.”
He walked evenly to the end of the street, rounding the corner to disappear.
Liv caught herself staring after him, returning with a thud to the reality of her four bags of heavy groceries. She couldn’t stop a sinking sensation that it was all going to go to waste.
36
“We don’t have any butter?” Savannah’s voice cracked. “What kind of monsters don’t have butter?” She slammed the fridge door shut and pressed one hand shakily to her forehead. A woman on the verge of a dairy-related breakdown.
The buzzer sounded.
Thank. God.
A minute later, Honey placed two uncooked birds on the kitchen table, furrowing her brow at the pile of crushed groceries. “What’s going on?”
Through gritted teeth, Savannah explained the failed dinner attempt and now-absent roommates, topped off by the indignity of a lack of butter, a key ingredient in everything worth eating.
Honey rubbed her shoulders. “Hey, it’s okay. I’ll go to the bodega and grab whatever you need. Then you and I can cook dinner. Even if it’s just the two of us, we’ll have a time.”
The familiar, selfless hospitality prompted Savannah to take Honey’s hand. “Oh, Honey, that’s so sweet of you. But I can’t make you cook on your day off. Making fried chicken in this dinky little kitchen is probably the last thing you feel like doing.”
“The only thing I feel like doing is hanging out with you. And trying out your grandmother’s recipe. Gotta get to know the competition.”
Savannah met Honey’s eyes. The color of Hershey’s Kisses. She was so lucky to have found someone who felt like home in a city so far from it. They melted into a hug, the afternoon’s tension draining away. Honey could always reset her mood.