I run a hand over my face. “Yeah.”
“How come?”
“I see it the way you do, I suppose. But in reverse.”
“You see evidence that love doesn’t exist everywhere?”
I shift in the seat, rearrange my legs. Run a hand through my hair. “Not everywhere.”
Summer doesn’t push. She finishes the salad instead. Puts two plates on the table and bends to check the oven. “Two minutes.”
“My ex,” I say. “It didn’t end… well. I found out about the diagnosis and a month later, she told me it wasn’t working anymore.”
“Oh. I’m sorry, Anthony.”
“Yeah. Well, I was pretty foolish, I suppose, to think she’d stay. Who’d want to shackle themselves to a man who’ll need help for the coming decades?” I shake my head. “She did the right thing.”
“You don’t believe that,” Summer says. “Not really, or it wouldn’t have hurt.”
I look down at the plate in front of me. Fiddle with the fork. “Yeah. I suppose.”
“You talk as if you’ll become paralyzed. You won’t. There are ways to live—”
My raised hand stops her. “Please, Summer. I… please.”
“I won’t, then. Just don’t talk disparagingly about yourself to me, okay? I happen to really like you, and no one talks bad to you in front of me. Not even you.”
I roll my eyes. “My savior.”
“That’s me. Now, do you want extra parmesan with your lasagna?”
“If the question is between cheese and more cheese, there’s only one answer.”
Her smile lights up her face, a difficult topic dispelled. It must be effortless for her. “See, I know there’s a reason I keep you around.”
“My infinite wisdom, yes. Happy to oblige.”
Our knees touch under the table as we eat, and talk, about everything and nothing. It’s cramped. The table is tiny. But the wine is drinkable and her food delicious, impressive, homemade. Cooked for us. For me.
I insist on doing the dishes afterwards and endure her laughter. “You’ve never done this before?” she says, reaching past me for the dish soap.
“Of course I have.”
“You fill the sink upfirst.”
“I just hadn’t gotten to that part.”
“Mhm. You’ve clearly never lived in a place without a dishwasher,” she says. “It shows.”
“I don’t cook either.”
“What do you live off of? When you’re not at mine?” Our elbows rub together as we inefficiently wash a dish. My fingers graze over hers beneath the soapy surface.
“I order in, mostly.”
“All the time? Like, for every meal?”
I shrug. “I suppose, yes.”