Page 30 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

I laughed. “It looks delicious. It looks perfect.”

Peter sighed happily with relief. “Come on. Sit down. Let’s test out the table and chairs. I only sat in the chairs when I bought them. Since then, I’ve been waiting for you to sit in them with me.”

There wasn’t a response good enough for what Peter had said, so I let him lead me to my chair and I slid into it, inhaling the savory steam still coming from the plates. The eggs were a little overdone for my liking, the sausages maybe a little too brown, and the toast not quite brown enough, but it was the best meal I’d ever seen. Because Peter had prepared it for us to enjoy together. Because it was a Perfect Sunday. Finally.

Peter slid into the seat across from me as I poured coffee into each of our mugs from the carafe. One thing I had learned in a week’s time was that Peter did know how to make a perfect pot of coffee. Once our mugs were full, Peter and I each grabbed a fork, sharing the plates, eating from them communally as we sipped our coffee.

A comfortable breakfast commenced, the two of us eating and sipping our coffee, our feet playing with each other’s as we exchanged sly grins. Through the window, I could look out onto Peter’s front lawn and the street. Early on a Sunday, with the sun barely above the horizon, the neighborhood was golden and warm. The street was empty of cars and foot traffic, and for a moment, I felt like Peter and I were the only two people in the world. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Peter watching me and smiling, sipping his coffee.

Knowing that Peter was happy to sit at the table, on a Perfect Sunday, and watch me with nothing more than a simple breakfast and cup of coffee pleased me. I wanted to turn and look at him, chide him for being so happy with such simple things; tease him for staring at me and smiling like a puppy dog. However, I didn’t want to ruin our comfortable silence and peaceful meal. When he began to softly whistle, I couldn’t help but smile, though I kept my eyes on the lawn below.

When I recognized the tune, that changed. My head turned to him automatically, as though controlled by a creature living deep within the most important organ in my chest.

Here Comes the Sun.

As our eyes locked, and Peter saw the look of recognition on my face, he stopped whistling and grinned widely at me. For several moments, we simply stared at each other, Peter smiling, me trying to control the fluttering in my chest.

“I bought Abbey Road,” I said. “When I finally had enough money. I have listened to it so much I may have to buy a new one soon.”

“Yeah?” Peter asked. “Did you like it?”

“That is the best song on the album,” I said, then relented. “Okay. The whole album is brilliant, but that’s my favorite.”

Somehow, his grin grew.

“Enzo,” he set his coffee on the table and leaned in, “would you like to see Lake Superior?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“I’ve been wanting to ask you if you’d like to use two of your vacation days to go,” he said. “It’s a two-and-a-half-hour drive. We could rent a cabin or a hotel room. Spend a day or two checking out the beaches. Eat lots of food. Hold hands and walk along the beaches at sunset like romantic assholes.”

I laughed. “I would love that.”

The Day We Felt Superior

Leaning out of the car window, reckless and guileless, my eyes were closed tightly against the onslaught of wind that whipped through my hair. Peter was laughing and singing along to the radio as I sucked in great lungfuls of the Northern Minnesota breeze. Somehow still cool and crisp in summer, it stung my cheeks as we drove along the lakeshore highway. With the lake to our right, the breeze seemed speckled with flecks of icy water, the air scented with things woody and earthy. The warmth of the sun fought against the wind and drops of lake water, warming my cheeks as I smiled up, sightless, at the clear blue sky.

Morning had drifted away as we drove north from Minneapolis to Duluth. We had left as the sun was rising, and breakfast was due when we reached the small port city. Eating at a small diner near the lake’s shore, we enjoyed hearty breakfasts that settled in our stomachs like stones, but satisfied our cravings for indulgence and carelessness. Biscuits and gravy, bacon, eggs, pancakes—and bowls of fruit so our guilt could be mitigated—we feasted as though it would be our last meal. When breakfast was over and paid for, we waddled from the diner and resumed our trip north.

Apparently, Duluth was not our intended final destination but a stop on our way to where we would be staying for our miniature vacation. Though Peter shared little of the plan he had in mind for our trip, I was unconcerned. I was simply happy to be invited along on the adventure, I left him to make our decisions for us.

It occurred to me—in passing since I was more concerned with enjoying our road trip—that I was uniquely and immediately comfortable in deferring to Peter’s judgment. Following someone without question or concern, and relying on their perceived experience, was an unusual decision for me. A decision I made subconsciously. Relinquishing control over any aspect of my life was outside of what I had considered normal for a great period of time.

Though I’d insisted—and won—in giving Peter money for gas, he had chosen the route we would take on our trip. He’d selected the diner for breakfast when we had arrived in Duluth. He had made reservations for our overnight accommodations. He had asked if I had any preferences as he made those decisions, but I had shrugged and indicated that I was okay with whatever he chose. Which was so unlike me.

As my head hung out the window, and my face was assaulted by the crisp breeze, I realized that, with Peter, I had not a single care in the world. Hedonism, or my version of it, was my motto for the short trip. I could simply enjoy myself, pursue pleasure in the moment, and indulge in the sights, sounds, flavors, and smells without concern for whatever the next day would bring. Because, with Peter, I felt that I was part of a team. Where I ended, he began. And vice versa. I didn’t feel alone for the first time in a long time.

I felt like I had a partner who had my back.

That realization forced my upper body back into the car and returned my butt to the warm car seat. Though I left my window open to enjoy the breeze, Peter took notice of the change in my demeanor. Reaching over, he laced his fingers through mine and gave my hand a squeeze.

“You okay?” he asked.

I managed a smile and a small nod as I squeezed his hand back.

“I am just excited,” I said, raising my voice to be heard over the music and wind. “The lake is beautiful.”

Peter grinned.