Page 130 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

“I need a purpose, Peter,” I said, though his last statement made me smile. “If I don’t have a reason to get up each day…”

Peter shook his head lazily.

“I think you’re confusing a job with a purpose, Enzo,” he said. “A job is not a purpose. It’s a means to make money. That’s all.”

“Your job is part of your identity,” I said, nudging him playfully.

“I do love my job,” he said. “It’s boring as fuck, but I do love it.”

We laughed.

“But it doesn’t give me purpose, babe,” he said. “That’s you. Us. Our life. The dreams we have for the future. Not my job. My job helps us work towards that dream.”

“The sweet things you say,” I teased him.

Peter leaned forward and gave me a lingering kiss.

“You know what to do,” he said, pulling back just far enough to speak. “But I won’t tell you to do it. That’s your decision. I’m behind you all the way no matter what you choose.”

“Okay.”

Peter stood, bent to kiss the top of my head, then looked down at me.

“I’m going to get back to work,” he said. “Then you can sit here and think about what you want to do. Okay?”

I nodded and watched Peter leave, looking over his shoulder to wink at me. With the office at the back of the house to myself again, I stared out the window at nothing. Spring had arrived, and though still chilly outside, the sun shining down on the emerald green grass of the backyard made everything look summery. At least from the warmth and comfort of inside.

Since arriving in the U.S., becoming a naturalized citizen, running from my marriage, running back towards happiness, I’d had no purpose or meaning, found a job, nearly destroyed the most important thing in my life, nearly lost the most important person in my life, somehow fixed it…and now I was directionless again. In minutes, I would call the CEO of my company and offer myself up as sacrifice.

For a moment, I felt as though everything that I’d gone through since I’d left Montreal for the last time, had been pointless. Self-pity began trying to creep back into my brain, to convince me that I had failed yet again.

Yet, as I stared out at the backyard, my eyes unfocused and my vision glassy as I got lost in my thoughts, I pushed my doubts and pity away. I had Peter. He had me. We had our marriage. We had our home and our wonderful life. We had created that together.

The world was a messy place, but we were doing our best. Creating the future we wanted together.

Even without a job, I could continue to create. Peter and I could create together.

You Were Meant for Me

“Just one more time,” Nancy said. “Please.”

Rolling my eyes, I obliged.

“Deux croissants et deux lattés s’il te plaît,” I repeated.

We were both wearing masks, but the bakery was empty of customers, so communicating was not as difficult as it sometimes could be.

Nancy squealed, her hands waving back and forth excitedly over the cash register. La Croûte had been mine and Peter’s favorite coffee shop and bakery for years. We’d been patrons for years—the entire time I’d lived in the U.S. Nancy was not unfamiliar with me. She, along with the rest of the staff at the bakery, never got tired of asking me to speak French. Peter also was often amused, watching the women of the shop swoon over my native tongue.

Funniest to me was that I always had to order in English first since none of the staff actually understood French for the most part. However, they often also wanted to hear it in French. If the bakery wasn’t too busy, so that I didn’t seem like a sideshow, I would oblige. After a while, the staff began to realize that I was happy to do this simple thing for them, as long as they didn’t put me on display for their other customers.

“Go sit with Peter,” Nancy shooed me away happily. “I’ll bring your coffees and croissants to you, hon.”

Laughing, I pulled my card from the machine and slipped it into my wallet, which I then deposited in my pocket. Peter was waiting for me at our favorite booth by the front window, watching people on the sidewalk pass. It was a spectacularly windy, yet sunny day in Minneapolis. Everyone outside was struggling to keep their shirts or skirts from flying up with each gust of wind, which Peter found comical. It was funny to me, too, but I struggled with laughing at other people’s misfortune. Especially since Peter and I had also fought against the wind on our walk into the bakery. Of course, the people who passed, holding down their clothing, were laughing about the wind, so I suppose it was funny.

“Nancy is going to bring our coffees,” I said as I slid into the booth seat across from Peter and lowered my mask. “And croissants.”

Peter smiled. “I was going to ask about the croissants.”