One True Loves by Taylor Jenkins Reid

Author:Taylor Jenkins Reid
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Publisher: Washington Square Press

It is just after eight when I pull into the parking lot of my apartment. I tighten my coat as I step out. The wind is starting to pick up, the temperature dropped as the sun went down, and I can feel the rough breeze and the cold air on my shoulders and neck. I rush into my building.

I walk into the elevator. I press the button for the fifth floor. I watch the elevator close and as it does, I close my eyes.

When he asks me what happened today, what do I say?

How do I tell the truth when I don’t know what it is?

I’m so lost in my own thoughts that I jump when the elevator dings and the doors open.

Standing in the hallway, right at our front door, is Sam.

Beautiful, kind, fractured, heartbroken Sam.

“You’re back!” he says to me. “I thought I saw your car pull up in front just now when I was taking out the trash but I wasn’t sure. I . . . I called you earlier, a few times actually, but I never heard from you, so I wasn’t sure when you were coming home.”

He wasn’t sure if I was coming home.

His eyes are glassy. He’s been crying. He seems to think that if he’s peppy enough I won’t notice.

“I’m sorry.” I put my arms around him and feel him lean into me. His relief is palpable. “I lost track of time.”

We head back into our apartment. The moment the door is open, I can smell tomato soup. Sam makes the most incredible tomato soup. It is spicy, light, and sweet.

I come around the corner into the kitchen and I can see that he has ingredients out to make grilled cheese, including vegan cheddar because I’m convinced I’m growing lactose intolerant.

“Oh, my God,” I say to him. “You’re making tomato soup and grilled cheese for dinner?”

“Yeah,” he says, trying to act cool, putting in considerable effort to make his voice sound carefree. “I thought it might be nice since it’s so cold today.”

He moves toward the cutting board and starts assembling sandwiches as I put my bag on the table and sit down at the counter. I watch him, carefully grating cheese, softly buttering the bread, as I unzip my boots and put them by the door. Sam’s hands are shaking ever so slightly. His face looks pained, as if it’s working overtime just to remain even.

It aches to look at him, to know that he’s trying so hard to be OK right now, that he’s trying to be understanding and patient and secure, when he’s anything but. He is standing there, putting a frying pan down over a medium flame, trying to pretend that the fact that I saw my (former?) husband today isn’t tearing him up inside.

I can’t put him through this any longer.

“We can talk about it,” I say to him.

He looks up at me.

Mozart walks into the kitchen and then turns around, as if he knows he doesn’t want to be here for this.

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