arms around me, pulling me even closer to him. “It’s the oxytocin.”
“So you mean if I have a headache, I can either take Tylenol or hug you?” I asked, pulling him toward me, tucking my head under his chin.
“We should try that,” he said, “next time you have a headache. But we can see it on the monitor at work: patients’ heart rates slow when their hands are stroked, when someone climbs into bed with them and holds them tight.”
It made sense to me. Ari and I felt better holding each other’s hands when our mom died. I felt better curled with her on the couch when I lost you, when I lost music, when I lost your dad. And I felt better in Ezra’s arms than I did nearly anywhere else.
“Does holding me like this make you feel better?” I asked.
“It does,” he said. “It makes me feel more ready to take on whatever comes my way, to face whatever challenges there are ahead of me.”
I nodded against his collarbone. “Me too,” I said.
* * *
—
We got up after that and made an omelet. I took an egg to crack against the edge of the counter but then stopped to watch him. He was tapping the top of a second egg with a butter knife until it cracked, then sticking the tip of the knife in the crack and turning it slowly and steadily to make a hole big enough for the yolk and albumen to flow out.
“I’ve never seen anyone crack an egg like that,” I said, fascinated.
“No possibility of shell,” he said.
I left the eggs to him and started chopping peppers and dicing tomatoes, wondering if he had some magical way to cut those, too.
“So I was thinking,” he said, as we tossed everything together in a bowl, “my parents are coming to town next weekend. And I’d love for them to meet you. What would you think about that?”
He was concentrating on pouring milk as he spoke, and looked up at me when he was done. “I just think . . . what we have is special and . . .”
“Of course,” I said. “I’d love to meet your parents.” Ezra talked about them enough that I was curious. I knew they were all really close, that he was their only child. And with my mom gone and my dad planning a wedding in Santa Fe, I loved the idea of being wrapped up in a tight-knit family again.
I loved the idea of being wrapped up with Ezra.
40
“I forgot about East Coast pizza,” Rob said, finishing his second slice. “Is it terrible if I go get thirds?”
“You mean New York pizza,” Priya said. “I grew up in Boston, and the pizza there is nothing like this.”
“But we’re in New Jersey,” Emily pointed out. “Is the pizza really the same here as in New York City? That feels like some sort of blasphemy.”
“Well,” Rob said, “I’m staying at a hotel in Manhattan. Shall we taste-test? Pizza crawl? I did one of those with my girls when I flew home to see them last week. I was surprised how much pizza two tiny kids could eat.”
“Is it hard to be away from them?” Emily asked, still amazed that Rob was a father.
“It is,” he said. “But they’re with their mom for the school week even when I’m home, so we’re used to FaceTime.”
Emily nodded. His voice was light, but she could see in his eyes how much he missed them.
“So. That pizza crawl?” Rob asked, redirecting the conversation.
Priya looked at her phone. “I’ve already stayed out longer than I should. I’m afraid I can’t. But I have to say, this is the most fun night out I’ve had in a long time.”
Rob looked at Emily. “Let’s all head back then, and maybe I could convince you to stop off at one more pizza place before you head home? Just, you know, to compare? Answer this very important culinary question?”
Emily wanted to. But wanting to do something didn’t mean you should. “Let’s head back,” she said. “I’ll see how tired I am when we get there.”
Rob smiled. “So does that mean I should get you a shot of espresso before we leave?” He pretended to look around for a waiter.
Emily smiled back. “Cute,” she said.
Priya looked at them both. “All right,” she said. “Enough flirting, you two. Let’s go.”
Emily blushed. She wasn’t sure if Rob did, too, because she wasn’t looking at him anymore. She was staring down