Page 97 of When Lemons Give You Life

Beau’s voice cracks. “And if I get lost?”

“Then I will always find you.”

For a moment he lights up, but as his gaze drifts past my shoulder, the smile falters. His hand hovers over the largest of the notes, taped to the mirror.

You are out. You are proud. You are accepted.

My throat tightens. How cruel, that the thing he fought hardest for—the right to live as himself—might be the thing memory dares to loosen. I watch his lips shape the words as if he’s trying to anchor them, to keep hold of a truth that slips more each day.

“Is it true?” Beau looks at me, eyes wide and searching, the way a child seeks reassurance.

“Yes, my love,” I whisper.

He lets out a long, trembling breath, the relief so raw, so total, it’s almost too much to watch, as though my one word has given him back the ground beneath his feet.

Apart from his viola playing, there’s only one other pathway left that’s been mercifully untouched: his tastebuds.

They say that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but it’s also the way to Beau’s mind. And in this, I am the driver and he is the passenger. It’s how I tell him I love him.

Later that afternoon, after some strong painkillers, I cook like a man possessed. Every day, while Beau naps, I’ve been re-creating a scene from a lifetime of culinary memories: vanilla slice from Sorrento, fresh raspberry sorbet from that tiny farm in Tassie, Nutella crepes in front of the Eiffel Tower. Some nights, I set the scene with music and props. Once, for our dining-table trip to Paris, I even wear a beret. Nothing is too much for him. Because when he eats, he’s here, with me. The fog lifts. He remembers.

“You’ve outdone yourself, Griff!” he says as he sits at the table one evening, savoring the smooth delicacy I’ve placed before him. “This is the best chicken pâté I’ve ever tasted, love.”

The words are a tonic for my weary soul. I run my hands through his hair. “Maybe I’ll make bruschetta tomorrow, like the one we tasted in Rome?”

The automatic doors hiss open as we step into the supermarket the next morning. I keep one hand on the trolley, the other hovering near Beau’s arm.

I survey the colorful array of heirloom tomatoes on offer, striped ones, deep red ones, one that looks eerily like Danny DeVito. I pick one up, turn it in my hand, trying to decide if it’s good enough.

When I look up, he’s gone. I abandon my cart, calling his name down the aisles, running, searching.

I finally find him in the pet food aisle. He’s holding an open tin of Chicken Delight cat food, scooping it into his mouth with bare hands. His face lights up when he sees me. “Oh, Griff! You’ve outdone yourself. This is the best chicken pâté I’ve ever tasted, love.”

The tomato slips from my grip and ruptures on the tiles, skin splitting open. And somewhere deep inside, I rupture with it.

The depression that has been hovering for months digs in its claws. I know I can never cook again.

My partner can no longer hear his own love language.

62

Griff

“Okay, that should be the last of them,” I say. “Great job, team!”

I watch as forty-two plates of nutritious roast chicken dinners head out the door. Word is, there’ve been requests to make the weekend chef permanent. I’ve never met the weekday bloke; I’d figured he’d be the one to catch me out—notice the meals had changed, start asking questions—but I haven’t heard a peep. Apparently, like many in this industry, he’s one of those who’s just here for the paycheck. Clocks his hours and leaves, not caring about what happens outside of his shifts. I’ve been sure to toss or use the allocated supplies as well as all the gourmet extras I purchase. So, I guess as long as the fridges look about the same by Monday, there’s nothing to raise suspicion.

Through the door, I spot Nishan chatting with one of the residents, laughing at something they’ve said. A full transformation.

“Martin? Martin!”

I turn around to see the flustered receptionist. “Hi, Tiffany, what are you doing here on the weekend?”

“Had to catch up on some pressing paperwork for the accreditation. Boss’s orders.”

I pause, recalling seeing her frantically shredding paper as I was on the way back to my room this morning.

“Anyway, I need your help urgently.”