Page 108 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

“I’m going to take my coffee to go,” he said. “I…that’s best, right?”

“Okay.”

Peter nodded and stood, then bent and pulled his pants up, zipping and buttoning them as he looked down at me.

“Can I bring the mug back tomorrow morning?” he asked. “Would that be okay?”

Peter was asking if he could visit again. Who gives a shit about a coffee mug?

I inhaled softly, calming myself. “Okay.”

The next morning, I had barely finished making my breakfast when the knock came at my door. Looking down at the meal I’d prepared, I realized I had made enough for two people. It had been a subconscious thing, making two portions. I’d told myself I would not be excited for Peter to return so that he could give back my coffee mug. My brain had told that idea to go fuck itself and led me to make enough food to share with Peter. I didn’t know if he’d even be hungry, but if he was, I wanted something to offer.

I wanted to share my breakfast with him.

Opening the front door to find him standing there shouldn’t have been an event that made me nervous, giddy in a way that I had to force myself to hide my excitement. But it did. I wanted to hate myself for it, but why shouldn’t I be excited to see my husband? The fact that a smile immediately bloomed on Peter’s face made it easy to not hate myself. I wasn’t the only person who was happy to see the person on the other side of the door.

“I brought your mug back,” Peter said, holding it out, cupped in the palm of his hand.

Wordlessly, I held the door wide, and crooked my head, inviting him inside. Peter entered my apartment and I closed the door gently behind us before taking the mug from his hand. I made sure that my fingers played along his as the mug slid from his hand to mine. Peter noticed, gazing into my eyes as my skin brushed along his. His hand was cold from having just been outside, and I was compelled to take his hands in mine to warm them.

Maybe let him put them in places that would warm them quickly.

Instead, I stepped away, carrying the mug over to the kitchen. Peter followed silently and watched as I opened the dishwasher and put the mug in the top rack before closing it again. When I looked up at him, he was shaking his head with a grin.

“I washed it.”

“I’ve seen you wash dishes,” I said.

Peter chuckled. “I’m not that bad. I was never that bad.”

I grinned at him.

“Fine,” he said. “I’m not as good at kitchen duties as you.”

“Thank you,” I teased.

It was then that I noticed what he was wearing. Peter had put on one of his suits and had his beautiful navy coat that he’d bought in Montreal years before on over it.

“You look overdressed,” I said. “To return a coffee mug, I mean.”

Peter looked me up and down, taking in my bare feet, my loose jeans barely hanging onto my hips, and the silly vintage t-shirt I’d bought at a thrift store that I’d thrown on after my shower.

“You look underdressed,” he replied. “To have a coffee mug returned.”

I glowered at him, but it was playful. Peter chuckled.

“I thought,” he said, looking around nervously, “that I’d go to church with you today.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” he said with a small shrug. “I never really went with you before. When you’d go. So, I thought maybe today…it’s Sunday. Yeah.”

My hands found my pockets and I sighed.

“I quit going to church,” I said. “Earlier this year.”

“You quit going to church,” he parroted, his face blank.