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SOMETIMES, BY MUTUAL agreement, two people have to table a consummation. Very much in the don’t-do-anything-rash column was our success as house- and officemates. It wasn’t merely inadvisable to take up with a coworker, but at Everton Country Day, sexual congress with almost anyone has been actionable since the 1990s when Anita Hill was our commencement speaker.
We proceeded thoughtfully, which is to say nothing happened on Christmas Eve eve. After sharing Bolognese, scaloppini, eggplant parmigiana, and tiramisu on the house, back on Turpentine Lane, at the top of the stairs, we kissed good night, almost chastely, before backing into our respective rooms, smiling. The next morning, I came to breakfast in a diaphanous nightgown I’d once purchased optimistically. It was lacy in the bosom and pale pink, a color they call blush. For modesty’s sake, I added a cardigan. Nick was at the stove, frying eggs over easy. Odd to see him clean shaven this early. And in nothing but Christmas-themed boxers, as if there had been an emergency call to the stove.
I said, “Hope I didn’t keep you waiting. I was taking a bubble bath . . . peach and passion fruit.”
Once he was seated, I slipped off the sweater, and asked, “Is it warm in here, or is it just me?”
He was buttering a half piece of toast but also whistling in what seemed both a jaunty and suggestive manner.
I said, “I noticed you’re wearing nothing but underwear to breakfast. That’s a first.”
He looked down, then up at me. It was an expression I’d seen the night before at La Grotta—solemn, as if to ask, Would this be the kind of first you’d welcome?
The next thing I said was “I’d really like to kiss you.”
“We can do better than that,” said Nick.
I closed my eyes—not a hesitation, but a time-out, the kind you need upon grasping, My fondest wish has come true.
Then one or both of us whispered, “Upstairs?”
Eggs and cereal abandoned. “Yes,” we both said. Yes.