out yeast, flour, sugar, sea
salt, and olive oil, setting them on the
counter. Next, I found a mixing bowl and
liquid measuring cup in a cupboard and
ran the tap to warm up the water.
I couldn’t stop smiling.
When was the last time I’d felt this
happy? Before my mom died? I couldn’t
even remember. In general, I was an
upbeat person who managed to find
silver linings and didn’t tend to fret over
things I couldn’t change, but it had been
a while since I’d felt this good. Was it
because I hadn’t had sex in months and
had broken a rare dry spell? Or was it
her?
I thought about it as I whisked
together the dry ingredients, then added
the water and olive oil. I’d figured sex
would be good with her—not only was
she smoking hot and temperamental, but
we’d wanted it for so long—what I
hadn’t counted on was how much fun it
would be. How much I’d enjoy the
challenge of her. How much I was
hoping she’d want to do it again later
tonight (and for fuck’s sake, let me take
some time with it…there were all sorts
of ways I wanted to please her), and then
again in the morning before she left for
work.
Of course, that was before I knew
about her No Sleepover rule. I’d have to
work on that, but not tonight. She’d only
turn me down, and I’d learned it was
better to let her come looking for things.
Shaking my head, I laughed out loud
thinking about the way I’d discovered
her in the closet. It was so ridiculous.
No complaints about where it went after
that, though.
Jaime appeared in the kitchen
doorway a few minutes later, a bottle of
wine in her hands and an amused
expression on her face. “From the
sounds coming through the floor up
there, I thought maybe the ghost of Prince
was down here cooking me dinner.”
“Alas. It’s only me.” I wiped my
hands, crossed myself, and glanced
skyward before turning the volume
down. “Rest in peace, brother.”
She opened a drawer and looked in.
“Oh good, you do have a corkscrew,”
she said, pulling it out. “I couldn’t
remember if there was one here.”
“How come so much stuff was left
when the former tenant moved out?” I
grabbed the biggest bowl I had and
greased it with olive oil.
“She found a job in London, where
her boyfriend was, and moved in with
him, poor girl. She didn’t want to take
all this stuff since she knew she
wouldn’t need it, so we said it was OK
to leave things.” She uncorked the bottle
and poured red wine into two glasses.
“Once she was gone, I came in and
cleaned and organized everything. I’m
glad it worked out for you.”
“Me too.” I put the dough in the bowl
and covered it with a towel. “I only had
to take a few boxes from storage. God, I
missed having a kitchen.”
“So you’re a good cook, huh?” she
asked, handing me a glass.
I shrugged. “I’m OK. My mom taught
me a few things growing up, and while
she lived with me in L.A. we’d cook
together when she felt up to it. Not that
she ate much.”
“Your mom was a great cook.”
“She was.” I took a drink. “Want to
go sit down? We need to let the dough
rise for a while.”
“OK.” She followed me into the
living room, where we settled next to
each other on the couch. The curtains
were open, and we both stared out at the
snow for a moment.
“My mom actually liked winter,” I
said. “It’s one of the reasons she never
wanted to move away from here.”
“You must miss her.”
“Every day,” I said. “I feel like I
didn’t get enough time with her, you
know? It’s like, when you’re young, you
can’t wait to get away from home, and
it’s only later that you appreciate what
your mom—or dad, or whoever raised
you—did for you. Only later that you
realize you should have listened closer,
that you weren’t done learning from
them, that you still have questions about
life.”
She nodded, looking over at me.
“What would you ask her now if