“YouTube videos!” Roger laughs. “If that’s all it takes, then how come I’m not an expert at golf yet?”
I give him a sly smile. “Well, I’m not three beers in when I paint.”
Roger roars with laughter and Gail shakes a finger at him. “She’s got your number.”
“Too true,” Roger chortles. “The more I shank, the more I drink.”
The rest of the interview passes by in an instant. The questions are easy. I know exactly what to say.
The commercial break is my chance to escape. Roger and Gail give me a brief handshake, already preparing for the next segment. The producer hustles me off saying, “Nice work! You’d never guess it was your first time.”
“She’s just being nice,” I say to Cole, as we pass through the green room once more on our way out of the studio. “I froze up at the beginning.”
“It just looked like you were thinking,” Cole says.
“I wasn’t thinking. I was lost—till I looked at you.”
Cole gives a small smile. “You must be the only person in the world who finds me a calming presence.”
“I certainly didn’t at first.”
“What did you think when you looked over at me?”
“I thought … even if I fuck this up, you won’t be embarrassed by me. You’ll still hold my hand on the way home.”
“I knew you weren’t going to fuck it up. You always find a way through.”
As Cole and I gather our bags from the hotel and head back to the airport, I think to myself that humans don’t learn things all on our own. Someone has to teach us. It might be necessary for someone to believe in us before we can believe in ourselves.
Unloved children are crippled because no one shows them the way.
Cole is so much more than a lover to me. He’s the teacher I never had. In some ways, the father I never had.
I blush, remembering what I called him last night when I was blitzed out and half asleep. I’ve never called anybody that word before.
I don’t want to be another fucked-up girl with daddy issues.
But god, it’s nice to have a daddy.
Returning to Seacliff feels like coming home. I run ahead of Cole into the house, practically skipping up the steps. Throwing open the doors and inhaling that familiar scent, increasingly mingled with my own shampoo, my perfume, and the old books Cole let me put on a shelf in the living room, even though the battered paperbacks clash with his hardcovers and leather-bound books.
I cook dinner for us both, delighting in using Cole’s heavy-bottomed copper pots and wooden spoons. Almost nothing in this house is made of plastic. Even the items Cole never uses are the finest quality, as much for decoration as for the formerly-unlikely chance that somebody would make real use of the kitchen.
Cole only cooks the simplest meals for himself. Still, he’s a keen student and watches carefully while I mix four egg yolks, freshly grated Parmesan cheese, and Italian herbs in a small bowl.
“That’s a lot of bacon,” he comments.
“If it’s not half bacon and peas, then it’s not carbonara,” I laugh.
“I think the Italians might disagree.”
“I’ll tell you a secret that will shock you … I don’t always like the most authentic food.”
“What do you mean?”
“I know this is sacrilege, but sometimes I like the American version better. We take all these foods from all over the world, amp it up, put it on steroids. San Francisco has the best food of anywhere, I’m convinced of it.”
“How would you know,” Cole laughs. “You’ve never been to Italy.”
“That’s true,” I admit.
I must look forlorn, because Cole quickly adds, “I’ll take you.”
“I wish,” I say, trying to laugh it off.
“I mean it.”
I hesitate, my throat tightening. I have a desperate desire to visit Europe and see the most stunning art and architecture of human creation.
But I shake my head.
“You’ve done too much for me already.”
“I’ve done exactly what I want to,” Cole says, his expression stern. “Don’t try to prevent me doing more of what I want. You should know by now it’s impossible.”
I never know how to deal with Cole. He really is relentless.
I change the subject, saying, “Look at this—you can use the hot pasta water to thaw the frozen peas.”
“Genius,” Cole says, with a small smile.
When I’ve stirred the sauce into the hot noodles, and divided the two portions onto our plates, Cole twirls the carbonara around his fork and takes an experimental bite.
“Well?” I say, bouncing in my seat.
“I take back what I said. This is really fucking good.”
“Better than Italy?”
“You tell me after you try the real thing. You’re the one with the best palate.”
I flush with pleasure, attacking my own plate of food.
I’ve never enjoyed compliments as much as Cole’s. Men have always told me I was pretty, but that’s the blandest of tributes. It says nothing about me as a person.
Cole compliments my taste, my opinions, and my talents. He notices things that nobody ever bothered to notice about me before, like the fact that I can taste and smell more acutely than most people, which really does make me a better cook.
It’s the silver lining of my sensory issues. While I’m often distracted or stressed by light, sound, smell, and touch, I also take deep pleasure from music and food, rich colors and textures, and the right kind of touch on my skin. It’s a blessing and a curse. When everything is wrong, it’s pure torture. But when all goes right, it’s a gift I’d never give up.
Cole is more considerate of my sensory issues than anyone I’ve ever known. While he occasionally uses them to manipulate me, he’s never tormented me like Randall used to do. Instead, he calls me his pleasure kitten and puts me in a state of such comfortable bliss that I feel I’d do anything to be his pet and live in this house forever.
When we’re finished eating, and Cole has washed and dried the dishes in his meticulous way, and I’ve put them back exactly where they belong, he says:
“I have something to show you.”
“What is it?”
“Come with me.”
He takes me into the dining room, where we never actually eat, preferring to sit at the high countertop in the kitchen.
My laptop still sits in the same place. I suppose I’ve made this my office, not that I spend much time on my computer.
Cole opens the laptop, flicking through windows so quickly that I can hardly follow what he’s doing.
Watching Cole navigate technology is eerie, his brain and fingers operating more rapidly than the machine itself.
“Have a seat,” Cole says, gesturing toward the chair next to his.
I slip into it, feeling uneasy.
When Cole has an objective in mind, he becomes highly focused to the point where he doesn’t blink and hardly seems to breathe. His face is smooth and unsmiling, his dark eyes fixed on my face.
He holds up a small black cylinder in his elegantly-shaped hand.
“I have something for you to watch,” he says.