“Hey yourself.”
“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”
“Stubborn,” Emma said, sprinkling more flour onto the wooden board. “Like its father.”
“Once upon a time,” he said, “there was a woman who burned toast and a man who burned coffee. They lived in a small apartment with a leaky faucet and a cat who hated everyone except them. Every morning, they’d sit across from each other at a wobbly table and eat their ruined breakfast. And every morning, the woman would say, ‘Sorry about the toast.’ And the man would say, ‘Sorry about the coffee.’ And one day, the woman said, ‘What if we stopped apologizing?’ And the man said, ‘What if we just said thank you instead?’ So they did. Thank you for the smoke alarm. Thank you for the burnt edges. Thank you for sitting across from me. And they lived—not happily ever after, because that’s not real—but honestly. Warmly. Imperfectly. And that was better.”
Jack grinned and wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. She smelled like vanilla and patience. He smelled like motor oil and ambition. Together, they smelled like home.
“Let me guess. You think the dough needs more love.”
“Good,” he said. “Because I already fixed the leaky faucet. You’re kind of stuck now.”
“Everything needs more love,” he said. “But my theory is that the best relationships are the ones you never have to leave the house for.”
“Tell me a story,” she said.
“Hey yourself.”
“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”
“Stubborn,” Emma said, sprinkling more flour onto the wooden board. “Like its father.”
“Once upon a time,” he said, “there was a woman who burned toast and a man who burned coffee. They lived in a small apartment with a leaky faucet and a cat who hated everyone except them. Every morning, they’d sit across from each other at a wobbly table and eat their ruined breakfast. And every morning, the woman would say, ‘Sorry about the toast.’ And the man would say, ‘Sorry about the coffee.’ And one day, the woman said, ‘What if we stopped apologizing?’ And the man said, ‘What if we just said thank you instead?’ So they did. Thank you for the smoke alarm. Thank you for the burnt edges. Thank you for sitting across from me. And they lived—not happily ever after, because that’s not real—but honestly. Warmly. Imperfectly. And that was better.”
Jack grinned and wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. She smelled like vanilla and patience. He smelled like motor oil and ambition. Together, they smelled like home.
“Let me guess. You think the dough needs more love.”
“Good,” he said. “Because I already fixed the leaky faucet. You’re kind of stuck now.”
“Everything needs more love,” he said. “But my theory is that the best relationships are the ones you never have to leave the house for.”
“Tell me a story,” she said.
