Chapter Fourteen, Part II

Next Time

They sit opposite each other.

Jack looks at the food.

“You made all this in half an hour.”

“Less.”

“This is the meal you were talking about this morning?”

“No. That one takes four hours.”

Jack picks up his fork. “You make meals that take four hours when it’s only you?”

“Sometimes.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve eaten enough bad food at thirty thousand feet to last several lifetimes. When I’m off, I like food that tastes like food.” Adrian picks up his wine. “And when I make it myself, I know what went into it.”

“You never eat junk?”

“Of course I do. I’m Italian, not a saint.”

Jack twists pasta around his fork. “Good. I was starting to worry.”

“You should still be worried. Just not about that.”

Jack takes his first bite.

He stops chewing and looks down at the plate, then back at Adrian.

“What?” Adrian asks.

Jack holds up one finger.

Adrian waits.

Jack swallows.

“That is out of this world.”

Adrian smiles despite himself. “It’s carbonara.”

“I don’t care what it’s called.” Jack takes another bite. “How have I never eaten this before?”

“You avoid food with more than three syllables.”

“That rule is over.”

“I’m pleased to have contributed to your development.”

Jack reaches for the bread, uses it to collect some of the sauce and puts the entire piece into his mouth.

Adrian stares at him.

“What?” Jack asks.

“You have pasta on the fork.”

“I’m being efficient.”

“You are eating carbonara with bread.”

“It’s good.”

“That is not a defence.”

“It is in this house.”

Adrian takes a drink of wine and tries not to laugh.

Adrian eats slowly. Jack finishes most of his carbonara long before him, then goes back for more bread, more caprese and finally uses the last piece of crust to clean the remaining pesto from the plate.

Adrian thinks of the meals he has made alone. Music playing. A bottle opened before the first onion was cut. The pleasure of taking his time and knowing exactly what was on the plate.

They had never felt sad.

They do not feel quite the same now.

Jack takes another mouthful of wine.

“You’re making this again.”

Adrian raises an eyebrow. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Next time.”

The words settle between them.

Jack does not look away or try to make them sound accidental.

Adrian rests his fork against the edge of the plate. “Next time.”

“You heard me.”

“I did.”

Jack leans back in his chair. “Redwoods. Carbonara. Maybe a kitchen with a knife that doesn’t bend when you cut something.”

“You’re building quite an itinerary.”

“I’m building a reason for you to come back.”

Adrian studies him.

Jack’s expression is open, but not careless. He knows what he has said. He has chosen to say it anyway.

“You don’t need to build one,” Adrian says.

Jack goes still.

Adrian takes a sip of wine before continuing.

“You already have one.”

Jack’s gaze drops to the table, then returns to Adrian.

“Good,” he says. “Because I was hoping I did.”

Jack reaches across the table, takes Adrian’s hand and turns it palm upwards.

His thumb moves slowly across the centre of it.

Adrian lets him.

They finish what remains in their glasses and leave the last of the bread between them. Jack tells him about a customer who once tried to repair an exhaust pipe with duct tape. Adrian explains why the Pecorino matters more than the Parmesan and receives a look suggesting Jack has already forgotten which one was which.

By the time they clear the table, the cottage is nearly dark.

Adrian carries the plates to the sink. Jack follows with the glasses.

“I’ll wash,” Jack says.

“You cooked nothing.”

“I grated.”

“You ate half the cheese.”

“That was quality control.”

Adrian fills the sink with hot water. “You can dry.”

Jack finds a towel and stands beside him.

They settle into the work without discussing it. Adrian washes and passes each plate across. Jack dries and puts them away, occasionally opening the wrong cupboard and refusing to admit it.

When only the cutlery remains, Jack comes up behind him.

He rests both hands on Adrian’s hips.

Adrian continues washing the forks.

Jack’s thumbs move beneath the hem of his shirt.

“You are not helping.”

“I’m drying.”

“You’re nowhere near the towel.”

“I finished drying.”

Adrian places the last fork in the rack.

Jack presses his mouth to the side of his neck.

The kiss is warm and brief.

Then another follows, lower this time.

Adrian closes his eyes.

“You’ve become very quiet,” Jack says against his skin.

“I’m trying to remember what I was doing.”

“You were finished.”

“I had not decided that.”

Jack’s hands slide around his waist, drawing him back until Adrian can feel the full length of him against his body.

“That feels fairly decided.”

Adrian turns in his arms.

Jack’s face is close, the humour still there, but thinner now.

Adrian puts one hand against his chest.

“You enjoyed dinner.”

“I did.”

“The wine?”

“Very much.”

“The company?”

Jack lowers his head until their mouths are almost touching.

“Persistent.”

Adrian laughs once.

Jack kisses him before the sound is finished.

It begins with the same playful warmth as the conversation, but does not stay there. Adrian’s hand closes around the back of Jack’s neck, and Jack responds immediately, pushing him against the edge of the sink.

The kiss deepens.

Jack tastes of wine and black pepper. Adrian opens his mouth beneath his and feels Jack’s grip tighten at his waist.

Jack’s hand slides under Adrian’s shirt, moving over his stomach and chest.

Adrian pulls the shirt over his head and drops it onto the counter.

Jack looks at him.

“You keep doing that,” Adrian says.

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me as though you’ve never seen me before.”

Jack runs his palm slowly down Adrian’s chest.

“I haven’t seen you like this before.”

“You saw considerably more this morning.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

Adrian knows.

Jack’s hand comes to rest against the centre of his chest.

“This,” Jack says quietly. “Here. With me.”

Adrian catches his wrist.

“I’m here.”

Jack’s eyes lift to his.

Then Adrian pulls him in.