Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 78634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Bryson pulled me out of my thoughts when he came into the room. He was carrying a pitcher and two glasses, and he placed them on the coffee table before sitting down beside me. We both leaned against the couch, and when he put his arm around me, I curled into him.
I loved hearing the excitement in his voice when he told me, “I feel like I really dialed in tonight’s menu, and think you’ll enjoy it.”
No wonder he’d become a chef. He was a caretaker through and through, and making food for people fit perfectly with that. That was probably also why he seemed to get a lot out of very literally feeding me.
Letting someone do that for me—and admitting I needed and wanted it—made me feel vulnerable, but it was totally worth it. I’d never felt more cared for in my entire life. It was intimate and soothing, and it made me feel safe. I had no idea why. It just did.
Bryson picked up one of the beautiful morsels he’d prepared and held it to my lips. It was a small, golden-brown sphere, and I had no idea what I was biting into. It turned out to be warm and savory with melted cheese in the middle, and after I tried it he told me, “This is called arancini—risotto balls stuffed with mozzarella cheese, then breaded and fried.”
I meant it when I said, “It’s amazing.”
We went through the entire meal this way, with him feeding me one perfect little thing after another. He’d made enough for both of us, and while he occasionally popped something into his mouth, his focus was on me. The risotto appetizers were followed by caprese salad bites, made with hothouse cherry tomatoes, sliced in half and sandwiching fresh basil and little balls of marinated fresh mozzarella. The main course was mini calzones with homemade marinara and ricotta, and for dessert there were teensy cherry cheesecakes that looked like they’d been baked for a Barbie party. I ate four of them before I had to admit I was full.
“Thank you, Bry. That was absolutely delicious,” I said, as I climbed onto his lap.
Bryson kissed my forehead and wrapped his arms around me. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“You’re so kind and patient. I don’t know why you indulge me like this.”
“Because I enjoy it, and you do, too.”
“I don’t know how you managed to make all of that so perfect, especially the tiny cheesecakes.”
“Through trial and error. My first two batches were dry and crumbly.”
“I’m sorry I’m such a distraction.”
“What do you mean?”
“You were going to spend the day working on winter squash recipes for your restaurant,” I reminded him, “but this ended up taking a lot of your time.”
“That was totally by choice. I’m having a form of writer’s block, I guess, when it comes to the restaurant’s menu. I just don’t feel inspired. As far as this dinner goes, you never asked for a bunch of miniature foods. I could have made a regular meal and cut it up. But I did it this way because it was fun and challenging for me, and because I wanted to make you happy by presenting you with cute things you weren’t expecting.”
All of that made sense, but I felt guilty anyway. That was just how I was wired.
We relaxed for a few minutes, and then we cleaned up the kitchen together before turning our attention to the storage boxes. I said, “I know you hadn’t been in the attic since the house was remodeled and a bunch of stuff got packed away, so how was it?”
“Bittersweet.” He pulled a stack of photo albums from one of the boxes and sat back on his heels. “It made me miss my dad, which I knew it would. I teared up more than once, but I also found myself smiling as I went through a few boxes and made some discoveries.”
“I wish you’d waited until I was home. We could have gone up there together.”
“I wanted to do it on my own. I was afraid I’d totally break down, and I didn’t want you to see me like that.”
“Why not?”
Bryson shrugged. “I guess I didn’t want to look weak. Not that you’d judge me.” He frowned and added, “I have no idea why I’ve always felt it was wrong to show my emotions.”
“I think most boys are taught that while we’re growing up. I had the most unconventional childhood imaginable, but the message that I needed to be tough and hide my feelings still managed to find me. Maybe I got it from books, or movies? I don’t know. It’s not like I actually had any male role models as a kid.”
“I did though, and I know my dad never taught me that. He’d always tell me it was okay to cry or show my emotions, but I automatically tried to hide them.”