Chapter 11: The Pasta Fiasco
The lemon poppy seed muffin from Riley was a small, bright joy. Later that afternoon, Paul found himself in the quiet sacristy, the only sound the soft rustle of his sleeves as he polished the chalice. Crumbs dotted the notepad beside him. He took another happy bite, the tart-sweetness bursting on his tongue, and washed it down with a sip of sacramental wine from a simple glass.
It was a minor sacrilege. He didn’t care. The wine was cheap and sweet, nothing like the rich port they used for communion, but Riley had bought it on the mainland because Paul had mentioned a craving for it weeks ago. The combination was perfect. Sunlight warmed the back of his neck. For a moment, there was no past, no Bev Keane, no angel’s shadow—just the present, simple sweetness.
A week later, a late autumn chill swept the island, bringing with it a nasty head cold that settled in Riley’s chest. He was laid up on the rectory couch, a mound of blankets swallowing his lean frame, his voice a gravelly ruin.
“I’m fine,” he croaked, as Paul placed a tray on the coffee table.
“You sound like a frog being stepped on,” Paul said mildly. He’d made chicken noodle soup from scratch, the broth simmered for hours with garlic and thyme. He propped Riley up, ignoring his weak protests, and handed him the bowl.
Riley took a reluctant sip. Then another. The heat seemed to melt the concrete in his sinuses. “Okay,” he mumbled into the steam. “This is… okay.”
Paul sat on the edge of the couch, a hand resting on Riley’s forehead, then stroking through his damp hair. He watched the tension leave Riley’s shoulders with each spoonful. This was a different kind of ministry. Quiet, tactile, born of love, not doctrine. Riley finished the bowl, his eyes already drooping. Paul took it, his fingers brushing Riley’s. No words were needed. The care was the prayer.
“This is a terrible idea,” Paul laughed, staring at the single, too-long strand of spaghetti connecting their plates.
“It’s romantic,” Riley insisted, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Classic. Now, go slow.”
They each took an end into their mouths. The plan was to suck inward, meeting in the middle for a sauce-smeared kiss. Paul chewed cautiously. Riley did the same.
Snap.
The strand broke two inches from Paul’s lips. He sputtered, a piece of undercooked pasta flying onto his chin. Riley’s end snapped a second later.
“Okay, okay,” Riley said, grabbing another strand from the pot. “This one’s more al dente.”
It wasn’t. The next snap was almost immediate. And the next. Soon, they were surrounded by broken pasta bits, their faces dusted with parmesan and dotted with marinara. A giggle burst out of Paul, high and unrestrained. It set Riley off. They dissolved into helpless laughter, foreheads touching across the table, the ruins of their romantic dinner between them.
“We’re idiots,” Paul wheezed, tears in his eyes.
Riley just leaned forward, through the pasta battlefield, and kissed him. He tasted of tomato, garlic, and pure, unfiltered joy. It was better than any movie scene.
The afternoon sun glinted off the calm harbor, painting the water in shifting sheets of copper. Paul sat on a weathered bench at the docks, a reusable container in his lap. Inside was a salad he’d made: chopped roast chicken, sweet cherry tomatoes, crisp lettuce, and a simple vinaigrette. He ate slowly, savoring the crunch, the salt, the freshness. The St. Bernard, the ferry Riley worked on, was just docking, its diesel rumble a familiar song.
He’d saved exactly half. He watched Riley jump onto the dock, his movements easy and tired in a good way. He was talking to Joe, the captain, wiping his hands on an oily rag. Then he looked up, saw Paul, and his whole face changed. The work-day weariness fell away, replaced by a smile that started in his eyes.
Riley walked over, smelling of salt and engine grease. He dropped a kiss on Paul’s head, then on his lips. “What’s this?”
“Your half,” Paul said, handing him the container and a fork.
Riley sat heavily beside him, their shoulders pressed together. He took a huge bite. “God, that’s good. I’m starving.” He ate with the unselfconscious gusto of a man who’d worked hard. Paul watched him, contentment a warm, solid weight in his own chest, right beside the gentle, insistent flutter of their child.
The last slice of lemon vanilla cake sat on a plate between them on the rectory’s kitchen table, a yellow beacon under the pendant light.
“You had the bigger piece last time,” Paul stated, his hand inching toward the fork.
“I did not. You’re using pregnancy brain as a tactical advantage.” Riley’s hand covered his. “I caught more fish today. I need the calories.”
“I’m growing a human. I am the calories.” Paul slipped his hand free and snatched the fork, diving in to scoop up a huge bite of frosting and crumb.
“Hey! Criminal!” Riley grabbed his wrist, guiding the fork toward his own mouth and taking a massive, equally greedy bite. Cake crumbs tumbled down his shirt.
Now only a sad, middle portion remained. They looked at each other. A silent, smiling standoff.
Then they both moved at once, abandoning utensils, leaning over the table. Paul got there first, taking a direct bite from the slice. Riley did the same a millisecond later, their noses almost touching, their lips brushing against the cake and each other. They chewed, laughing with their mouths full, a mess of sugar and citron and competition.
When it was gone, Riley licked a spot of buttercream from the corner of Paul’s mouth. “We should get a bigger cake next time.”
“Or two,” Paul agreed, leaning into him, the sweet taste lingering, a shared victory.