Pause (Larsen Bros)

Meanwhile, Leif starts rifling through cabinets, searching for something. “I’m sure I had a bowl somewhere. Not sure about a big spoon.”

“I didn’t see any while I was unpacking. My mixing bowl is in the bottom right cabinet.”

I tie on my apron. “Could you please preheat the oven to 350 degrees?”

“On it.” He does as told, casting me a curious look over his shoulder. “Anna, does everything you own match?”

“No. Not everything. Though I do kind of stick to a color scheme. And I like things to look a certain way.” Oh dear. It’s a little odd seeing my French navy-and-white-colored cooking set in a new space. But since Leif only owns a bed and one cool black linen sofa, everything basically coordinates. I’d cope if it didn’t. But my obsessive-compulsive tendencies, inherited thanks to Mom, are happy. “So the real answer there I guess is maybe a yes?”

“Right,” he says. “Are you going to freak out if I’m being messy and leave something lying around?”

“That depends. What sort of something?”

“I don’t know . . .”

“You probably should have thought of this issue before inviting me to move in, by the way.”

He sighs. “What if my laptop is lying around?”

I shrug. Care factor nil.

“Okay.” He taps a finger against his lips in thought. “How about an item of dirty laundry?”

“I’d probably just throw it back in your room so I don’t have to look at it.”

He contemplates this answer. “Fair enough. I think the cushions and throw you put on the couch are nice.”

“Great!” I smile. “You know, I’m not as anal as I used to be. But I do like things the way I like them. I’m going to survive if they’re not perfect, however.”

“Perfect is hard.”

“Perfect is impossible and unattainable,” I correct him with a smile. “Life isn’t perfect, Leif. Neither of us are perfect either. Nor do I expect us to be. It’s hard enough just figuring out who you are and being yourself in this world. Why heap on the expectations and make the whole thing that much harder for yourself and everyone around you?”

“Good point.”

“Thank you. I’ve got a bit more perspective these days. Having your life upended gives you a certain kind of wisdom, apparently.”

“Well, I for one no longer live in fear of clashing with your color scheme,” he says.

“Excellent.”

“I did, however, expect something more like silk for your nightwear.” His amber gaze runs over me from top to toe. It’s quite thrilling. He’s never really shown anything beyond a casual interest in my appearance before. “Something . . . flowy,” he says. “You know?”

“Something flowy?” I look over my pale blue men’s pajamas. “These are flowy.”

“No, they’re baggy. There’s a difference.”

“Yes. Well. They’re comfortable. Thanks for the feedback, and I’m sorry I let you down on the risqué lingerie front.”

“That’s okay,” he says, all magnanimous like. The idiot.

But if he was having horny thoughts about what I wear to bed then I don’t feel quite so bad about my continued and ongoing objectification of the man. So there.

While I never asked Leif if he wanted to bake with me, we just kind of fall into sync in the small kitchen. His energy is back. His happy vibe. Guess distraction can work wonders for dark moods and thoughts. Same goes for the promise of chocolate and sugar. While he doesn’t seem to have much experience, he is eager to learn. Something I heartily approve of. Mom liked the idea of me learning to cook, just not the actual me-being-in-her-kitchen part of things. Mostly my grandma taught me. She didn’t get as cranky if I dropped flour on the floor. She used to make the best Mexican wedding cakes I ever tasted.

“What next?” he asks.

“Would you mind greasing the pan while I melt the butter?”

“Sure.” First he picks up his cell, putting on some music. An old Nina Simone song about feeling good. Perfect for kitchen shenanigans at odd hours of the morning. While I’m a great believer in kitchen safety, a bit of hip swaying in time to the beat never hurt anybody. Probably. I’m not actually much of a dancer. It requires a level of coordination I never quite managed to achieve. Nor was I blessed with a decent singing voice. But I do love music. The way it sweeps you up and fills you with emotions. The way it tells a story and takes you on a journey. The art of it all.

Which is when I realize my heart is light. Being here, doing this with him, feels right. That’s nice. It’s good. I choose to take it as a sign that I’m clearly on the right life track.

“It’s always about you,” he says out of nowhere, voice subdued and dark gaze fixed on the pan. “The nightmares, or flashbacks. I’m not sure what they are, but they come at night. You being stuck in the car and me not able to get you out in time before something worse happens. Like it catches on fire or a tree limb crushes it or another vehicle slams into you and . . . there’s not a fucking thing I can do. I just watch you die over and over again in all these fucked up violent ways and I hate it. I hate that I let you down.”