Page 6 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

“I cannot afford expensive,” I said as Peter took what was apparently our exit.

Peter focused on the road as he smoothly exited the highway onto a city street, guided us through lunchtime traffic, and slowly eased into a parking spot along the curb of a busy street. Looking around, I could see that he had delivered us to a popular and busy section of the city, overrun with what looked like harried business people and fashionable young people. The passing faces on the sidewalk outside of the car were of different hues and ages, which made me smile. I found myself staring out at the deluge of Americans on the sidewalk, though I knew it would have been considered rude if anyone had noticed. Fortunately, people were too busy on their way to wherever one goes in the middle of a Monday to notice.

My eyes were drawn from the people to a sign high on the brick wall of the building we were parked alongside. Chop House 42. Was this the restaurant he had wanted me to try? As people passed, and I could glance between their bodies, the large windows that lined the front of the building answered my question. People inside were seated at tables with white tablecloths, eating, talking, and laughing—probably in the loud American way that was as charming as it was startling.

“Enzo.” Peter tore my attention from the building.

I turned to look at him.

“I know you can’t afford much,” he said.

I didn’t respond for fear that I would blush and stammer.

“You probably budgeted your vacation down to the last penny,” he said.

“I—”

“I want to say,” he ignored me again, “that I want you to have the best vacation of your life. I don’t want you to worry about if you’ll have enough money for something as important as food. And in the U.S., you have to try everything. Because there’s so much of it. So, if you don’t mind, please let me worry about making sure you’re fed while you’re here, okay?”

“Peter—”

“It would make me happy,” he said, reaching to the console to thread his fingers through mine once again. “I’m a Midwesterner at heart. Hospitality is important to me in general, but it’s paramount when it’s you.”

I looked down at my lap, allowing myself a small smile.

“Also, I know how much this hurts your pride and you don’t want to feel that you owe me anything,” Peter said softly. “I just want to make sure you eat well. That’s all.”

“Okay,” I said, knowing there was not much else I could do.

Peter was right. I had budgeted for my trip to the last penny that I could afford to spend. A nice meal in a restaurant was beyond my means. It was ridiculous to argue with Peter about my ability to pay for anything beyond fast food. Furthermore, it would have hurt to put my pride above Peter’s happiness. So, agreeing was all I could do.

“However,” Peter said, “I do have a solution to make you feel less guilty. So you feel that you aren’t taking advantage of me.”

My curiosity piqued, I looked up at Peter. What would he suggest? Not that there would be anything I would deny him.

“Since I’m taking you to lunch and dinner today,” he explained, “let’s go to a big American grocery store tomorrow, and you can pick out all of the delicious things you love to make. And you can cook meals for us. My kitchen needs to be used and I’m not a great cook.”

Grinning, I nodded slowly.

“I would love that,” I said. “To cook for you.”

“See?” Peter grinned as he unfastened his seatbelt. “If you would just trust me, things work out so well.”

I unfastened my seatbelt as I rolled my eyes playfully.

“I will need more proof before I become an ardent believer,” I quipped.

Peter laughed and slipped out of the car, racing around to my door to grab the handle and hold it open for me as I slid from my seat. My cheeks warmed at his romantic display, though I did not mind it at all. Though Montreal’s population was greater than that of Minneapolis, I found myself anxious in the swarm of people passing by on the sidewalk.

Americans. I found myself thinking. They do not like foreigners.

When Peter laced an arm around my waist and guided me from the car, using his fob to lock it behind us, my tension eased marginally. Having him guide me through the intense, though friendly, faces of the people on the sidewalk, I wasn’t as anxious.

“They have a hamburger here,” Peter began as we made our way to the two glass and wooden doors with brass accents at the front of the restaurant, “that has sauteed mushrooms, caramelized onions and crispy shallots, Swiss cheese—it’s just so fucking good you will want to have sex with it.”

I gave a startled laugh at Peter’s profane description.

“And the fries and onion rings are delicious,” he laughed with me as we approached the door and he slid his arm from around me to open it.