“Are you allowed to call that boring?”
“Isn’t your country based on the superiority of coffee,” he teases.
“I think it was more an overreaction to taxation. But, kind of. Especially in New York. They say we have the best coffee in the world, but—”
“You don’t.” His laugh is easy. “Better than London. But nothing on the Pacific Northwest.”
“Don’t say that in the city.”
“I wouldn’t dare.” He checks the cabinet. Scans several tins of tea. “What will you have?”
“Chai. I can do it.”
“Nonsense.” He motions to the table. Sit. “Tell me how you take it.”
“If you’ll let me fix breakfast.”
“You negotiate?”
“Of course.”
“Of course,” he says it with a different inflection. One that means of course he likes you. Which… is a compliment. I guess?
I move past the dining table. Into the kitchen. “Double strength. Two teaspoons for one cup of water. Brew for five minutes. Then strain. Combine with a cup of warm almond milk. I usually warm it in the microwave after I pour the hot water.”
“Specific.”
My cheeks flush. “I know what I like.”
“You two have that in common.”
My blush deepens. “Do you have a preference? With breakfast?” I check the fridge. Full of fresh food, of course. How long does Ian plan to keep me here? Not that I’m complaining.
“Don’t care for porridge.”
“My heart. You’re breaking it.”
He chuckles. “Eggs?”
“Eggs work. Scrambled okay?”
“I suppose you wouldn’t know how to make a full English?”
“Not a clue.”
“Then yes. Scrambled is perfect.” He fixes a cup of coffee. Leans against the counter as he nurses it.
His shoulders ease. His exhale deepens. The poker face fades to some mix of exhaustion and frustration.
Maybe he is hungover. Or heartbroken. Or both.
I want to ask. I want to say something to comfort him. I don’t really know Ty, but he seems like a good guy. If he’s renting out villas for Ian’s birthday—
Or flying across the Atlantic to deliver news of some kind—
He can’t be too bad.
“Drink too much?” I ask.
“Is it that obvious?”
I motion a little.
Again, he laughs. It’s more tense. Less easy. “You’re very American.”
“Thank you?”
“Blunt. I’m not used to it.”
“Why beat around the bush?”
His laugh is knowing. “You are perfect for him.”
“How is that?”
“Ian… how much has he told you about his ex-wife?”
I make that same a little motion.
“She was a performer. An actor and a singer. Always expressive. Bright and vibrant. At first.”
“At first?”
He nods, as if that explains everything. “She was forthcoming. Or maybe she only wanted to seem that way.”
Okay…
“She shared everything with him. He got used to that. Counted on that. Shared everything with her too. Until, one day, he didn’t. And she didn’t. And it all spiraled from there, until she was six months into an affair with her singing instructor.”
“Oh.”
“I probably shouldn’t tell you this.”
“Okay.” I pull the eggs from the fridge. Find a bowl. Crack. Stir.
“Ian doesn’t know.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t want him to know.”
Is he still drunk? Why in the world would Ty ask me to keep a secret? He barely knows me. “What don’t you want him to know?”
He laughs that same pained laugh. “I suppose I should spell it out.”
“Probably.” I focus on finding a pan. Warming it on the stove.
“I’d like to tell you this, because I think you should know. I think it will be best for him if you know. But I need you to promise you won’t share the information.”
“Oh.”
“If you can’t promise… I understand. Secrets are a burden.”
“They are.” I add oil. Tilt the pain until it’s coated.
I shouldn’t promise I’ll keep a secret. Secrets are a burden. And I have my own burdens. But I want to know. Everything inside me is itching to know.
“You really think it’s best for him?” I ask. “If you tell me?”
“I do.”
I nod go on.
“His ex. Laura. I saw her at a pub one night. With the singing instructor. They were close. Not close enough I could be sure, but close enough I was suspicious. When I confronted her, she confessed. Begged me not to share with Ian. Promised she was getting ready to tell him. Swore it would be better if she did.”
“Oh.”
“She was desperate to tell me. To tell someone. All that guilt… I guess it wears on you. I believed her. That it would be better if he heard it from her. That it was theirs to figure out.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing. For a while. Until some party. She got drunk. Pulled me aside. Spilled more details. The explicit ones. And others too. How it happened. The first time… it was a drunk mistake. A kiss. Only one kiss. One moment. One mistake. She thought… it was better not to share. That it would be selfish to share. That was her reasoning. If it really was one time, and it never would happen again… was it fair to ask him to carry that burden?”