Chapter Eighteen

The frozen wind nipped at Arthur's nose, but he didn't particularly care. They hadn't stayed up until midnight to ring in the New Year by choice. The fireworks had simply made it impossible to sleep. Still, when midnight ticked over, Martin had leaned in and put a tiny kiss high on his cheek, almost at his ear, then wished him Happy New Year. It had left Arthur lying awake for an hour, blinking into the darkness of the room.

For them, day-to-day physical intimacy was holding hands. If emotions were running high, there might be a hug or it might mean they sat with a table between them and breathed together.

Arthur knew early on that Martin was offering his mind and heart, but his body was off limits and he had accepted that without a second thought. Martin's heart and mind were an amazing and precious gift that he treasured every moment. But even as the wind numbed his face, he could still feel where that little peck had been. There was so much in the way of an 'average' life Martin had never experienced, maybe he had wanted to try something as close to a New Year’s kiss as he felt comfortable with. Maybe he was worried that Arthur was expecting one. Arthur hoped not. He would hate if Martin tried to push himself beyond where he felt comfortable. He knew it was a big conversation they should have already had but, for now, he just listened to the rhythm of their steps on the icy gravel of Central Park.

There were a surprising number of museums and shops open on New Year’s Day. They had spent the morning browsing in and out of them, getting breakfast and lunch from steaming carts on the sidewalk. Then Martin had turned them to a kitchen supply store and Arthur had nearly died as he wondered how many restaurant-quality pans he could fit in his luggage and how much of his 401k he could spend on knives. And how many knives could he put in his luggage before the TSA got annoyed? Did he need a whole new set of kitchen knives? No. Did he want them? Yes.

"Are we looking for something in particular?" Arthur asked Martin, trying to hold in his excitement. It would be nice if Martin was looking for things for himself.

"I need to get a knife for someone, then go to see them. Do you mind helping?"

"No?" Who did Martin know in New York who needed a knife?

He took a basic chef knife from a display row and handed it to Arthur. "One like this, but something that will last."

Well, this was Arthur's wheelhouse. He held the blade in his hand, then put it back. Fortunately, he'd done this before Christmas when assembling Martin’s gift. He scanned his eyes along the brand names. Expensive wasn't always best.

"That one." He pointed to a chef knife in the display case. "Not too heavy but holds an edge well."

Martin motioned the clerk over to pay for the knife, even wrap it, then went outside and flagged down a cab. Arthur's curiosity was absolutely clawing at him, but Martin seemed calm. Or rather, he didn't seem to be putting on any front or character the way he had at the library or the art buy.

Eventually the cab dropped them off in an area of the city far from the tourist or business centers. It felt like an area where people simply worked and lived. Martin went up a couple of steps to an unassuming door and pressed a button.

"I'm not sure if she's in. I should have called ahead."

"Okay." Arthur still wasn't sure who she was but was willing to wait.

There was the sound of footfalls on the other side of the door. The snick of a peep hole cover and then the clicks of various locks. The door opened, revealing a small woman with gray hair. She looked Martin up and down. "You are still in New York?"

"Yes."

She looked Arthur over next. "Who is this?"

"This is Arthur. He's been teaching me to cook. Arthur, this is Tala."

Arthur felt Tala's hard eyes scrutinizing every inch of him. He didn't flinch. It was the same look Hanh had given him every time he stepped into her line of sight. He knew any show of weakness would be unacceptable but he also had to acknowledge that he was in no way in charge of the situation.

She gestured them inside with a nod of her head. With only a few steps, they were in a small kitchen. Martin handed her the gift box. She opened it carefully.

"The handle on your knife was broken."

She nodded and placed the knife on the table. She looked over Arthur again. "What do you cook?"

The tone was somewhere between job interview and a 'what are your intentions' grilling.

"I have professional training in Vietnamese cuisine with a grounding in classical French. I'm competent in most pastries but have never been great at tempering chocolate."

Tala waved a dismissive hand in his direction, then she pointed at Martin. "He needs proper food. See if you can learn adobo."

Before Arthur could comment that he had made adobo before, a few different varieties, she reached into her fridge and pulled out a chicken with the head and feet still attached. She put it on the table in front of him along with a cutting board and a knife with a broken handle.

"Pieces, now."

"Yes, ma'am." He glanced over at Martin as he quickly broke down the chicken. Martin smiled at him over a cup of thick black coffee and decided that whatever he was about to learn or go through would be worth it.

Martin hadn’t anticipated that Tala would demand to give Arthur a cooking lesson right there, but he also wasn't surprised. She was protective that way. She hadn't been able to fold him in with her own sons, older than him, boisterous, popular in their circles, but she had tried.

Arthur had completed every task she set him with the dedication of a dinner rush. He had stood there and sipped coffee and mostly watched Arthur's hands. There was efficiency in every movement, but also grace. He wondered how many cuts and burns it had taken to develop that.

During the hours when the chicken was marinating, she lectured Arthur on other dishes Martin had never known the names of, but that she remembered feeding him.

When the chicken was finally ladled over rice, she declared it 'not bad for a first try.’ Martin had to hold back a rush of sense memory at the first bite, sequestered in the kitchen, away from some fancy party, his school uniform shoes feeling heavy on his feet. The sound of Tala's voice as she ordered around the servers hired for the party, yet every time she walked by him, she would lay a comforting hand on his back and make a little shushing noise like she was trying to calm a skittish animal or a crying child. Maybe he had been crying. He couldn't remember that clearly.

It was dark when Tala finally ushered them out the door. He had texted for the town car to be waiting, knowing it would be hard to flag down a cab in the area and it could be a long wait between trains.

"Okay," Arthur said with a sigh as he leaned back in the seat. "Who exactly was that?"

"Tala."

"And how does she fit in your life?"

"She was my aunt's housekeeper. She…"

"She took care of you."

"Yes."

"So, my cooking skills just got thoroughly evaluated by the closest thing to a mother you have."

"Yes."

"Did I pass?"

"It would make me very happy if you could make adobo again some time."

Arthur took his hand. "Any time you like."

For the next few days Martin let himself be guided almost blindly from one end of New York to the other in a way he didn't think would be possible. They bounced from the MoMA to the Museum of Mathematics. They ate in tiny restaurants that sat four and some of the most famous New York culinary establishments. (He wished Arthur had given him that list of his. He could have made reservations in the more prestigious locations).

Arthur bought postcards and fridge magnets and a t-shirt with a pizza on it from a sidewalk table. He'd held it up and asked if he thought it would fit Carol. Martin had no idea.

And in the moments when he felt his own energy begin to flag, or the crowds or bustle became too much, Arthur always seemed to know and, without a word between them, he would suddenly find himself in a quiet corner of a museum or holding a cup of tea at a tiny table in the back of a diner with Arthur just waiting, no urgency in his manner or form.

Sometimes in those moments there would be seconds where he could not breathe for the waves of feelings that crashed over him. He'd gone through his life taking advice from few, orders from many. Often feeling little more than numb from day to day. Then Arthur had held out his hand and sat down for lunch. And here Arthur still was. Quietly sitting with him while snow dusted the streets and sidewalks of New York City.

He took his hand from his teacup and placed it around Arthur's. Arthur smiled and another wave crashed. He was sure love was too small a word for what he was feeling. A binding from which he never wanted to be unbound. A sea into which he desired to sink. He laced his fingers into Arthur's and squeezed hard. He knew he must be causing pain but right now he didn't have the words, didn't know if there were words, and could only hope that Arthur would understand.

Arthur squeezed his hand in return. Firm but more gently than his own desperate grasp. "It's okay," he said softly, then slowly took Martin's other hand and guided it to the side of his neck.

He could feel Arthur's pulse, fast, but strong and steady, and knew he was understood.