latermaybe | For Elio

For Elio

With the end of the year closing in, I found myself anxious to close out the semester. I was distracted. I knew my colleagues could sense it, my students restless in classes that had lost focus. My writing had suffered, but it had never been something I was particularly proud of anyway. My heart wasn't in it. I wanted to be home.

I was afraid to go home.

I was compelled to be with Elio whenever possible, but his grief was consuming. I'd watched it whittle away at him, the cracks that Purge Night had left in him shattering the day that Jamie left, leaving behind the raw nerves beneath. Old wounds opened by the loss of his parents. The loss of me, over and over. I wanted to help him, but neither of us knew how I was meant to do that.

I stayed out for a few hours with some friends from the university, playing poker in the basement of their campus housing. I'd left early, guiltily, even though I'd told Elio where I'd be. I brought home a bottle of expensive wine and felt foolish. I loved him so much, and had never been so helpless.

Key in the door, I blew out a breath, braced myself, and stepped inside.

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"The shop on Lombard," I said, giving him a rueful smile. "Impulse."

I'd wanted to bring him home something nice. Gifts would never fix things, but he could at least know that I had been thinking about him.

"I thought I might make us some dinner."

It was a little later than usual, but I had a feeling he hadn't eaten. If asked when he'd last made himself a meal, I worried he wouldn't have been able to remember.

He had stopped to get it for me, then. For us. It’s a nice gift, but what matters most is that he thought of me and wanted to bring me something nice. It helps remind me why I love being alive. I really do, even if it hasn’t always felt like it recently.

“Thank you,” I say thickly, clearing my throat and then smiling over at him, soft and genuine. He mentions dinner and I frown a little, suddenly remembering what it was I had forgotten to do today. I was focused on cleaning up, sweeping away debris from the duel explosions of my life, and it hadn’t occurred to me to refuel.

“I’ve only had coffee today,” I tell him, obviously just now realizing it, and I let out a chagrined huff of laughter. “How very Italian of me.”

I look at the wine and then the clock, then back at him again, reaching out to put a hand on his knee. “Do you want to cook? We could order something.”

"I want to," I said, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Then, covering his hand with mine and giving it a squeeze, I added, "It makes me feel like I'm doing something."

This wasn't something that could be fixed with a bottle of wine and a meal, but taking care of each other was part of the agreement, wasn't it?

“Oliver,” I chide softly, turning so that I can lift my free hand and put it on his cheek, thumbing under his eye until he meets my gaze. “You do so much, pesca. Every single day.”

My deflated heart swells in my chest, valiantly beating for him while he patches the cracks. I lean in and press our mouths together, giving him a lingering kiss and pulling back to smile at him.

“But if you want to cook, I won’t stop you,” I tell him in a lighter tone, kissing his cheek and then pulling myself to my feet. My body is a little sore from not moving much and I stretch my arms over my head, twisting at the waist. “Can I help, or should I just open the wine and look pretty?”

"You know me, bello. I have to keep busy."

I kissed his lips, his cheek, the heel of his hand, watching him rise to his feet with a warm smile. Fingers briefly grazing the bare slice of stomach visible beneath his shirt, I stood, giving him one last quick kiss before making my way to the kitchen.

"I would love it if you helped, but you do look very pretty."

“I know,” I say warmly, with a bit of a rueful tilt to my smile. His fingertips skim across my belly, intimate but hardly sensual, but I feel a flicker of warmth. It’s enough to have me feeling almost relieved. It feels like I’m slowly unthawing.

“I’m up for some multitasking,” I tell him with a smile, scooping up the wine and heading toward the kitchen. My helping usually includes fetching utensils and refilling his wine, so I start my finding the bottle opener and retrieving two glasses from the cabinet. “What are you thinking?”

"I've got a couple of steaks in fridge. They should probably be cooked," I said, opening the door to the fridge and pulling out the meat drawer to have a look. I'd gone to the butcher the other day, grabbing a few things on special, just to have on hand. Holding up a package of two petite filets, I asked, "What do you think?"

With those, and the wine, we could cobble together a decent meal in no time.

I don’t even realize how hungry I am until I’m watching Oliver in his element in the kitchen, tugging up the sleeves of his sweater and holding up food. My stomach growls and I huff out a soft laugh, nodding as I shove the corkscrew down into the wine bottle. I twist it and my stomach drops, nose scrunching as I’m reminded of that night. It’s just a second and I shake it away, clearing my throat and looking over at him.

“That sounds great,” I tell him sincerely, blowing out a breath as I yank the cork out of the bottle and pour us both a generous glass. It takes a lot to resist the urge to chug straight from the bottle, and that’s something, I guess.

“I feel like I should probably eat a vegetable.” I have no idea what we even have on hand because Oliver had to go to the store. I feel so grateful for him that my knees go weak, and also just the slightest bit guilty.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” I say as I reach for my wine, though I’m sure I don’t need to. He knows. God, I hope he knows. “You’re a really good husband, Oliver.”

Reaching into the crisper, I pulled out a bunch of broccolini, holding it up for his approval. "Will this do?"

Without waiting for his answer, I pulled out a roasting pan, and asked, "Grab me a head of garlic from the pantry?"

I gave the greens a quick rinse and pat them dry, pausing on my way to the cutting board. It was such a simple statement, but it stole my breath. I swallowed, nodding, and went to him, arm slipping around his waist.

"So are you, Elio," I murmured, lips pressed to his brow.

I’m grateful to be given tasks, nodding as I head to retrieve the garlic. I turn to give it to him but he’s right there, putting his arm around me and reeling me in, and I smile as he kisses my forehead. I put my hands on his waist, garlic clutched between two fingers, and then lift my head to give him a soft kiss on the mouth.

“I’m glad,” I tell him, resisting the urge to argue. I don’t feel like a very good husband right now, but I want to be.

“What next?” I ask as I pull away, setting the garlic down and rubbing my hands together. “I can set the table.”

We haven’t eaten a proper meal at the table since everything happened. It would be hard to tell that anything happened at all, if not for the brand new rug covering the floor. I want to take our home back.

Chuckling, I said, "Alright, bello. You can set the table." It felt good to tease him, just a little. Shooing him out of the way, I set the oven on my way to grab a small bag of new potatoes and a baking sheet. On it, I scattered the vegetables, seasoned with whole garlic cloves, a drizzle of olive oil, a few sprigs of fresh herbs and set the pan on the rack to roast.

Salting the steak, I let it rest at room temperature for a bit, washing my hands and claiming my glass of wine.

"How would you feel about looking for a bigger place?" I asked him in the quiet between moments, the words spoken carefully as I nursed my glass.

Sometimes it still stuns me that we’ve found ourselves here, as a married couple sharing such domesticity, but at the same time nothing has ever felt so right. Setting my fingers on piano keys, and setting my sights on him. Those are the two greatest things I have ever done in my life.

As I set the table, I even start to hum a little without realizing it. I haven’t done anything musical in days, maybe in weeks. Here I am, unthawing.

Oliver comes over as I set down the last of the silverware, and his question stills me for a moment. But then I smile a little to myself and nod, turning to look at him.

“It does feel like we’ve outgrown this place,” I say as I pick up my own glass. “I want to keep the store, but—“ I glance around and swallow hard, nodding a few times and smiling at him, soft but genuine. “Yeah. I’d feel good about it.”

"It's a little cramped," I agreed, pulling the pan from the oven and giving it a bit of stir. "You need more room to write. I need more room to avoid writing," I added wryly, grimacing as I shut the oven door. I'd had a bit of a lull in my publications, and I was sure it hadn't gone unnoticed in the department.

"We can start looking in the new year, after the holidays die down?"

“Maybe you’ll be able to write more if we’re not tripping over each other for desk space,” I say with a warm smile, though my brow furrows in slight concern. Oliver has such talent, but I know he struggles sometimes to get the words out. I think he puts too much pressure on himself, but I get why.

“New year, new house,” I say with a nod, setting my glass down so I can come up behind him at the stove and wrap my arms around him, burying my face against the back of his neck.

“I’d like to look near the water,” I murmur against his skin. “We both do better near the water, don’t we?”

"Maybe," I said, matching his smile. I could see that moment of concern flickering across his face, but left it unacknowledged. I could pretend that I wanted to do what I could to keep the moment light, but was I really anything more than a coward?

"You'll be closer to Neil," I said offhandedly, turning my back on him to hide my smile. Neither of them seemed willing to admit to how close they'd somehow become, but in Jamie's absence, it was a relief to know that he still had people who loved him.

"That is my number one priority when it comes to real estate," I say dryly, though it would be nice to be near a friend. But then I think about how Neil is one of the few on a dwindling list, and I feel a stab of anxiety. The thought of losing anyone else is terrifying, and I wonder how I'm meant to make new friends. I clutch at Oliver's hips and sort of zone out for a second, and then force myself to take a breath and shake my head. I can't get into that spiral right now.

"Maybe we could rent this place out," I say after a moment, nosing at the back of his neck to calm myself. He always smells so good, like home, and it calms me. "To a student or something. We'd have to give them a good deal." My head falls forward to rest between his shoulder blades. "On account of the murder."

"I thought it might be," I said, chuckling softly as I pat the steaks dry and seasoned them. I could hear the slight edge in his voice, and was unsurprised when he reached for me, his hand at my hip, his nose pressed into the back of my neck.

"No we won't, on account of no one ever finding out about that," I countered, gently nudging my head back against his, since my hands were busy.

"Right," I breathe out, pressing my head against his when it tips back to find me. It's such a sweet moment, blissful in its domesticity, and I take a deep, steadying breath. It's our secret, and there is no one I trust more than him.

"God, that smells good," I say with my nose pressed to the base of his skull, inhaling deeply and hooking my chin over his shoulder, hands sliding up under his sweater to rest against his stomach. "The steaks smell fine too, I guess."

Chuckling as I tested the heat in the skillet before laying the steaks down onto it to sear.

"You're playing a dangerous game, bello," I teased him, reaching up to turn on the exhaust fan when the steaks began to smoke. While they cooked, I rest a hand atop his, threading our fingers together.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I murmur with a smile, tucking my nose behind his ear. He smells like books, like sunshine, and I sigh contentedly before pressing a kiss to the side of his neck.

“I’m just standing here,” I add, pulling him tighter against me. Warmth flares in my belly and it’s almost a surprise. I haven’t felt it in weeks, too consumed by guilt and grief, and I squeeze Oliver’s hand, sliding our joined fingers up under his sweater. “You’re just very handsome when you feed me.”

"I'll have to keep that in mind," I teased him, as if I hadn't already known the power cooking for someone you loved. Both for him, and for me. There was little in the world that made me feel more useful.

Reaching for the tongs, I turned the steaks, glad that I was familiar enough with this process to be able to do it one-handed with ease.

While the second side seared, I twisted in his arms to kiss him, mouth smudging clumsily against his.

I’m probably getting in the way but if I am, he isn’t saying so. He works around me, flipping the steaks with one hand while I sniff at his hair like a creep.

He turns to kiss me and I smile into it, shifting from behind him so I can cup his face in my hand and kiss him properly, deepening the kiss and licking at the inside of his bottom lip. The warmth in my belly grows, bright but unhurried, and I pull back to nudge our noses together as the meat hisses in the pan.

“Don’t let them burn, pesca,” I tease in a low voice, kissing him again before pulling away entirely and picking up my wine, smiling against the rim of my glass.

"Brat," I said affectionately, leaving the steaks on for a few more moments before transferring them to a plate to rest.

Grabbing a potholder, I took out the vegetables, setting the pan on a trivet and turning off the oven. My eyes met his, and another knot of tension in my chest unlocked. He looked, for the moment, content. It wouldn't last– couldn't, with everything that had happened, but it was enough to remind me that eventually, everything would be okay.

"Bring me your plate?"

Oliver looks at me with something like relief in his eyes, and I smile back at him. It’s a good moment. It’s hard not to have a good moment with him, and I tell myself to take it one moment at a time. I want to linger here, to bask in it for as long as I can.

Nodding, I finish off my wine and then bring him both plates from the table. While he fills them, I refill our wine glasses and bring them over, and also get us two glasses of water. I push my chair closer to his before sitting down, so that we’re side by side instead of across from each other, and smile up at him as he sets the plates down.

“Grazie, pesca,” I tell him, tipping my head back to rest against his hip for a moment. “This looks amazing.”

"You're welcome," I answered back in Italian, bending to press a kiss to his forehead. Slipping my hand through his hair, I let the moment linger, before pulling away and sliding into my seat.

"We were both due for a decent meal," I said, taking his hand and giving it a brief squeeze.

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