Page 8 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

He blushed. “It’s…the way the house was built when I bought it. It was a real shitbox before I renovated it.”

I chuckled warmly. “Shitbox?”

He shrugged. “I tried to make sure it kept its original charm, but, you know, updated it for modern living. I think it hadn’t been updated in the hundred years since it was built. Until I came along.”

I looked around. “It’s very charming. You did a wonderful job. At least in the kitchen.”

“You’ll give me a decision about the rest of the house after my phone call?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

Peter meant that he fully expected me to show myself around as he had requested and to not be shy about it while he made his phone call. If that’s what Peter wanted, I would somehow force myself to tour his house and be as nosy as possible. Within reason.

“Then I’ll leave you to it,” Peter said. “Don’t forget to put that in the fridge.”

Peter’s statement reminded me that I was holding a to-go box that contained two enormous slices of cheesecake from Chop House 42. The crowded, boisterous atmosphere of the steakhouse, frequented by both chic young people and proper business types, was in direct contrast to the exquisite food it had to offer. Though a “burger joint,” as Peter explained when we were seated at our table, which was covered in a pristine white tablecloth, the food was delicious and refined.

Doing my best to ignore the prices on the menu, I took Peter’s suggestion and ordered the burger he had told me about on the sidewalk outside of the restaurant. Peter ordered the same. Since we both waffled over fries or onion rings, we ordered a plate of each to share. Over a dark beer for Peter and a glass of water for myself, Peter explained that I was going to be shocked by the quality of the food. Of course, I didn’t believe him, but I nodded along, simply happy knowing that I would soon be fed after my journey.

Peter turned out to be underselling the restaurant. Burgers that covered half of the plates and teetered precariously in height were brought to our table. The fries and onion rings were mountains upon the trays they were presented on. The quantity of food made me certain that it would be no better than anything one could order at a fast-food restaurant.

Upon my first bite of the burger, Peter once again was proved truthful. Buttery, delicate brioche enticed my tongue as tender, succulent ground meat, grilled to medium perfection, melted in my mouth as its juices threatened to escape and drizzle down my chin. Mushrooms that were sauteed until dark brown seduced my tongue with their earthy, savory, umami meatiness. Caramelized onions, sugary sweet, buttery, and creamy slid over my tongue as the crispy fried shallots snapped and crunched between my teeth—a perfect contrast to everything else. The gooey Swiss cheese melted on the burger and the real garlic aioli—both pungent and decadent—were a creamy compliment.

It was the perfect burger.

The fries were crispy and salty when bitten into, but fluffy and delicate inside. The onion rings delivered the aromatic, savory onion flavor contained within the crispy coating; a touch of sweetness following behind. It was all too much and not enough. Everything was so delicious that I wanted to eat until I burst. Dessert had been impossible, even though we had managed to eat all of our burgers, fries, and onion rings. So, Peter insisted that we get dessert to go. I found it impossible to argue with his suggestion. I let Peter decide for us, and slices of cheesecake were his decision.

“I forgot that—" I looked up.

Peter was gone with my suitcase and bag. Knowing that Peter would be upset with me if I didn’t tour his home and make myself comfortable, I forced my feet into motion and crossed the kitchen to the refrigerator. Inside the door on the right, I found it well stocked. Milk, eggs, a few juices, real butter, condiments, vegetables, beers, a few sodas, and various containers holding leftovers. I slid the to-go box holding our dessert into an empty space.

Since I was curious, and Peter had insisted I sate that curiosity, I opened the left side of the refrigerator and found frozen foods. A tray full of ice from an automatic ice maker, a tub of ice cream, two frozen pizzas, some frozen vegetables, several steaks, and a variety of meats.

Glass beer mugs, frosty and ready to be utilized, lined the shelf on the door. I shut the doors and turned to examine the kitchen. I had no real interest in finding out what brand of pots and pans Peter had in his kitchen, though I did feel that knowing what his dinner plates looked like would be interesting. Since I knew that I would find that out organically, I decided against opening cabinets.

I ventured into the small office Peter kept off of the kitchen. Utilitarian and obviously designed with a focus on function over style, I stepped back out into the kitchen. Behind a door next to Peter’s home office, I found a pantry as big as my bathroom in my apartment, well-stocked with dry and canned goods. My mind could not comprehend that room so quickly after everything else I’d experienced in the day, so I closed the door and opened the door next to it.

A dark stairwell led down into the basement. I assumed the best—that Peter was not hiding bodies—and shut the door. My eyes landed on the stairs that led upstairs from the kitchen, but then I realized I hadn’t seen the rest of the downstairs.

Stepping into the hallway that led from the kitchen to the dining room, I found a few chic picture frames on the wall at eye-level above the dark wainscoting leading up from the dark cherry floorboards. The pictures within held what I assumed were family photos. I wasn’t quite ready to examine Peter’s life outside of his connection to mine, so I ventured further down the hall.

The dining room had the same dark wooden wainscoting as the short hallway, but the large windows that lined the wall to my left made it feel more cheerful. A nice, but understated wooden dining table and chairs enough for ten were the focus of the room, naturally. The room was rather plain; décor had not been wasted on it.

So, I moved from the dining room into the living room. Peter was perched on the edge of the couch, talking on his cell phone. My suitcase was standing before him with my other bag nestled atop it. He continued his conversation but smiled up at me as I entered the living room. When I saw that he was still on the phone, I moved to leave, but Peter indicated that I was welcome to keep looking around. So, I did.

I walked around the living room, looking out the numerous windows at the front yard and neighbors’ houses, and eyed the furniture discreetly as Peter spoke into his phone. I did my best to ignore what he was actually saying to whoever from his work was on the other end. Like the dining room, the living room felt a bit sparse. Barren. As though Peter hadn’t spilled over into the room. It was functional and clean but had none of Peter’s personality.

I gestured to Peter, indicating that I was going to tour more of his house, and he gave me another wave and a smile. Another small hallway off of the other side of the living room, like the one between the dining room and kitchen, greeted me. Halfway down the hallway, I found the half bathroom that Peter had mentioned. Toilet, pedestal sink, small medicine cabinet with a mirror. Functional, clean. I had yet to find anything wrong with Peter’s house—nothing that concerned me—but I had yet to find Peter in his house.

When I stepped out of the bathroom and traveled to the end of the hall, I finally found Peter.

The den.

It was obviously his favorite room. A large sofa big enough to be a bed for two, an easy chair, gorgeous in the obviousness that it had been used lovingly for years, three bookshelves that reached to the ceiling which were full of books, and an obscenely large television greeted me. A cozy, quilted blanket had been draped haphazardly across the back of the sofa—obviously after having been used for a nap. The ottoman in front of the easy chair was askew just so. Three books were stacked on the end table between the chair and sofa, along with a half-full glass of water. Various remote controls and gadgets were strewn haphazardly on the table.

This was Peter.

A smile came to my face as I took in the room. I imagined that Peter spent hours of his free time in his den watching movies, reading books, and taking naps on his sofa. He maybe even ate his meals from his easy chair. When I turned, I noticed the fireplace tucked into the corner behind me. Taken care of and clean, it still showed signs of frequent use. The hearth was large enough for a person to sit upon it comfortably in front of the fire to warm themselves, even with the bin of logs and the tools on either side of the fireplace.