All This Time

30 ⦿ in which domesticity doesn't suit us

The day after we meet Liza is Graeme and Xander's engagement dinner. Wolf's been in the kitchen since he woke up, I assume, or at least since I woke up. Waking up to the banging of steel pots and pans on a lazy Saturday morning isn't my idea of a great wake up call. As the cacophony increases, so does my need to go offer to help.

Stifling it down, I bury my head under my pillow and groan. A quick glance at my cell phone tells me it's almost eleven a.m., high time I got out of bed, but as I sprawl in the luxurious queen-sized bed, productivity is the last thing on my mind.

After lazing about for another ten minutes, I realize the noise in the kitchen has receded into a suspicious silence. "Wolf?"

A pause. "Yeah?" he calls back.

"What's going on?"

"Just cooking."

"I don't smell anything."

Another pause. "Wanna help?"

There's an endearing note of desperation in his voice. I smile into my pillow. "Give me five minutes," I shout, swinging my legs out of bed and shivering as I leave the warmth of the blankets.

A quick trip to the bathroom later, I emerge with squeaky-clean breath, tangle-free hair, and an oversize university sweatshirt. My hair is cooperating with me this morning, even though it's not straightened. I gave it a quick flip upside down and brushed it vigorously to give myself some volume, and as I pass my reflection in the hall mirror, I grin when I see my success.

"Wow," Wolf says when I enter the kitchen. "I don't think I've ever seen you look that unflattering before."

"Thanks." I roll my eyes. "Okay, what do you want me to do?" I glance at the mess he's made on his formerly sparkling marble countertop. "Clean up duty, chopping?" I suggest.

"I didn't mean it in a bad way," he protests. "Seriously. You look good."

"I haven't showered and I have no makeup on," I inform him flatly. 

"I know," he says, voice soft. Soft enough to make me look at him. His eyes are tender and almost wistful, like he means what he says.

Feeling self-conscious, I chuckle. "Yeah, thanks." I rub my lips together in a nervous gesture, looking away. "So what're we making?"

"Something way too ambitious for my limited repertoire of skills," he huffs.

"I thought the fridge was empty?"

"I went to the market early this morning." He gives his neck a sheepish rub. "I didn't think you wanted to wake up early, so I didn't ask you to come."

"No, that was smart." I offer him a crooked smile. "You beat the crowds."

"I like waking up early," he says, even though I didn't ask him. "There's something about New York in the morning, you know? The glow cast over Central Park, the hint of orange on the horizon, peeping out over the tops of the buildings. The stillness. Just people walking their dogs or hustling to their cars."

What he's divulged feels intimate, like he's giving me a part of himself that he doesn't often speak about. Something soft and sentimental, poignant and poetic. 

"That's beautiful," I murmur. "I guess I never looked at it that way. It's always seemed so"—I struggle to find the word—"I don't know, crazy?" I watch as he sifts through a bag of small red potatoes. "There's something so giddy about New York. Like everywhere you turn there's a hundred different things going on. It fills me with nervous energy, like I always have to be doing something so I'm not wasting New York. It's stupid." I stop talking, wanting to kick myself for babbling like a freak to him.