Page 131 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

“I would have been shocked if you hadn’t.” I kicked him softly in the shin under the table.

Peter feigned a shock of pain, before giving me a wink and pulling out his phone. I slid my jacket from my shoulders to lay in the seat behind me as Peter swiped through the news. Anytime we went to La Croûte together, we had a routine. I would order our drinks and snack. Peter would check the news for anything important. When Nancy brought our food and drinks to the table, we’d raise our masks before she was too close—to protect her and us. She never lingered for too long, so we would then lower our masks again and enjoy our coffees and snacks.

As we ate and sipped our coffees, Peter would occasionally mention something newsworthy he saw as he scrolled through his phone. I would stare out the window and watch people pass. On gloomy days, I’d watch the rain trace rivulets down the window. On sunny days, I watched the sun glint off of the windows of the surrounding buildings. I’d simply spend time disconnected from everything the world could throw at a person in a day.

Once done with our coffees and snacks, we might linger for a few minutes, but we’d eventually leave La Croûte for a hand-in-hand walk around our favorite downtown neighborhood. The pandemic had changed our routine in that we didn’t pop into as many shops to browse anymore—especially if they were busy—but being outdoors and keeping a reasonable distance from others finally felt safer. Even if every shop was too busy to feel safe to venture into, at least Peter and I could have our walk, our hands never separating.

When the world is constantly threatening to fall apart, at least you can hold on to someone who matters to you.

“Thank you,” Peter said for us when Nancy delivered our order.

She told us we were welcome through her mask, and her eyes were such that I could tell she was smiling underneath it. Nancy was a smiler. It was one of the things I loved about her. I never felt unwelcome in La Croûte.

Aside from our home, La Croûte was one of the few places in the city where I felt comfortable and safe. I tried not to spend too much time at the bakery, but when you find a welcoming place with genuinely friendly people, and it also serves coffee and wonderful baked goods—it’s hard to stay away for long.

“You know,” Peter said, “no one ever needs to go to France. The croissants here are the best in the world.”

I laughed loudly. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

Peter frowned playfully.

“They are delicious, though,” I relented.

Eyeing me for a moment first, Peter said: “Do you think you ever want to go back to France?”

“To live?” I asked.

He shrugged.

“No,” I said. “Never.”

“What about to visit?” he asked. “You could show me where you were born. Teach me more about the culture. Those kinds of things?”

“I suppose,” I said. “If it was important for you to take a vacation to France one day, I would go with you.”

“But it’s not important to you?”

“No.”

“So…you don’t miss your home?”

“This is my home,” I said. “You are my home.”

He grinned widely. “I feel the same. But you know what I mean. America is…well, America. Our marriage aside, don’t you think that—”

“I think that I’m where I’m meant to be,” I said, cutting him off as I kicked him gently under the table again.

Peter simply smiled.

“However,” I said, knowing what he was getting at, “no, America is definitely imperfect. It can be awful, yes.”

“But?”

I shrugged. “It’s my home. I don’t want to run from it, either. What kind of person would that make me if I didn’t hold onto hope that it will be better one day?”

“I suppose,” he said, lifting his coffee to his lips. “It’s just frustrating. Ten steps forward, nine steps back, you know?”

Sighing, I said: “I guess we’ll just have to keep making steps together. Because this is where we’re meant to be.”