Page 9 of Breakaway
I look at him. He is looking at the screen, but I see the smile he's trying to hide.
"Fine," I say. "But I pick the restaurant."
The spreadsheet has sixteen columns now and one complete row of data and a Rules tab with three rules on it. The weighted average reads seven-point-one for the evening. Good. Not great.
Wes saves the file. In the filename field, he types RESTAURANTS.
"We'll rename it later," he says.
"We won't."
"No." He closes the laptop halfway. "We probably won't."
The gelato cups have been empty for half an hour. The clock on the wall above the kitchen reads twelve-fifteen. We have been arguing about food for over an hour and neither of us has suggested stopping. Wes takes both cups to the kitchen. I hear the water running and the cups land in the recycling. He comes back through the living room on his way to his bedroom, and he does not stop walking but his hand passes near the back of the couch where I am sitting and his fingers brush the cushion beside my shoulder. Not me. The cushion.
"Buenas noches, Berger," he says.
"Buenas noches," I say, and my accent is terrible, but he does not correct it.
I sit on the edge of the bed in the guest room with my phone in my hand. The spreadsheet is there. Wes shared it with me while we were building it, a muted notification. I open it now. One row of data. La Marea, September, ceviche six-eight versus seven-one, lamb seven-two versus seven-four. The Notes column:B claims plantain chip is "infrastructure." Under review.I close the spreadsheet then open it again.
My apartment search has three saved listings I have not visited. The realtor emailed on Monday and I did not respond. I tell myself I will respond tomorrow. I tell myself I will look for an apartment this week.
?
Chapter 4: Wes
THEN
The camera is on the nightstand where I left it. The light through the blinds is the flat gray of six-fifteen, too early for the water to be worth shooting. I sit up. The novel has the receipt from La Marea holding my place at page 212. I haven't moved past 212 in four days because I keep rereading the same paragraph about a man standing in a rail yard, finding sentences inside it I missed.
The hallway is quiet. The guest room door is closed. I walk past it toward the kitchen and the coffee is already on.
Luca is at the counter with his back to me. White T-shirt, shorts, hair pushed up on one side from sleeping on it wrong. Two mugs out. Handles turned the same direction.
"Morning," he says without turning around.
"Morning."
He turns. "I added the breakfast place from yesterday."
"What did you give it?"
"Seven-three for the eggs. Six-nine for the toast. The toast was too light, which is a penalty."
"It's a deduction."
"A deduction is a penalty with better branding." He pulls the carafe off the burner and pours.
I reach for the mug. His hand is still on the handle and my fingers brush across his knuckles. He lets go. I add milk from the fridge. The morning light comes through the kitchen window and lands on his collarbone where the T-shirt sits loose.
"The eggs were a seven-three?" I say.
"Generous, honestly. The yolk was overcooked. But the seasoning saved it." He sets his mug down and opens the laptop on the counter. The spreadsheet is there. He scrolls to the bottom and types something into the notes column. The weighted average for the breakfast place reads 7.1.
"Seven-one for the overall," I say. "That feels right."
"Seven-one is honest. I would go back for the eggs. I would not go back for the toast."
