Page 109 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

“I haven’t been in months,” I said. “I…guess I fell from grace.”

I tried a joke, though it wasn’t my best.

“God didn’t catch you?” Peter asked.

“Butterfingers,” I said with a small shrug.

Peter snorted, amused, but he looked concerned.

“It’s not God,” I said. “It’s just the church.”

He nodded along slowly before quietly responding. “It meant so much to you, Enzo.”

Shaking my head softly, I tried to figure out the words to explain myself.

“What it represented meant so much to me,” I said. “But I can honor those things without the church.”

“Okay,” he said simply. “Okay.”

We stood there for a moment, not really looking at each other, but not necessarily avoiding looking at each other. I felt, momentarily, that I had somehow disappointed Peter. He should not have had any say so in my religious or spiritual path—especially one in which he was never involved—but I found I still cared what he thought. Of course, I wanted to be sure that he knew his opinions about that would not change my mind. I didn’t have to ask, though.

“I’m proud of you, Enzo,” he said.

“What?”

“For having the courage to make that decision,” he said. “It must have been difficult.”

I shrugged. “A bit.”

He smiled again. “A bit, huh?”

Chuckling, I said, “It seems so…nothing now.”

“Okay,” he said, shaking his thoughts away. “I’m glad it worked out well for you. But I got gussied up for nothing.”

I laughed at his choice of words. “Not for nothing. You…you look very handsome. I made breakfast. I made enough for you, too.”

“What did you make?”

I gave him a look that let him know that I knew he was not nearly as picky as he tried to pretend to be at times. He grinned.

“A frittata. I have buttered toast.”

“Sounds good,” Peter said and slipped his coat and suit jacket off before laying them across the arm of the sofa. “Coffee?”

“Of course.”

“Well,” he said, “let’s eat. You probably need to take your medication anyway, right?”

I didn’t respond as I set about getting two plates from the cabinet.

“They haven’t made you try anything new, have they?” he asked as he sat down at the small dining set I had in the corner of the kitchen. A round table, two chairs, no more than I needed. “No more experiments with your health?”

He chuckled as I set about cutting into the frittata so that I could put a piece on each plate.

“I don’t take it anymore,” I said.

Peter frowned at me.