closed.
Chapter 6
Monica
I trudged back to Stephen’s apartment in the afternoon. I’d written most of the article and run a few errands, but somehow I’d never gotten around to taking the ring to the jeweler.
Stephen’s apartment wasn’t large, but it was in an expensive high-rise, and had an amazing view of Lake Michigan. It had been beautifully decorated by Stephen’s ex-boyfriend, Patrick, an interior designer. The furniture consisted mainly of sleek, black leather couches and chairs, and stainless steel tables with glass tops. The floor was a darkly gleaming hardwood, covered with plush rugs, and the walls were decorated with abstract prints in thin black frames.
It was a very sophisticated, urban atmosphere. I admired the quality of decor and the consistency of the design, but I had to admit that it wasn’t really to my taste. If I ever settled down long enough to get a place of my own, I imagined filling it with the artifacts that I’d bought on my travels and had stored in my parents’ attic—African baskets, Asian porcelain, Latin American textiles, Middle Eastern rugs—my crazy, colorful, full-of-memories collection. Someday, I thought, it might be nice to have a cozy little apartment or house to come home to … but not yet.
I’d been staying with Stephen since I’d left my parents’ house, shortly after the holidays. My first choice, honestly, hadn’t been Chicago, especially in the dead of winter. Initially, I’d planned to come back in the fall and sublet a friend’s apartment in Miami, which I was quite looking forward to. But that had fallen through, and by the time Stephen had offered me an alternative, it was either stay with him or stay on the outskirts of Minneapolis, enduring both bad weather and pitying looks from my family. At least in Chicago, I’d only have the weather to contend with.
Once I’d shuffled out of my winter layers, I set a bag of frozen raspberries on the counter to defrost. I’d seen a bottle of Cointreau in the cupboard, and had come across a recipe the day before for raspberry-Cointreau sorbet, which sounded delicious, if not exactly seasonal. To make up for it, I decided to make chicken potpie for dinner. It was comfort food at its finest—and if I was honest about it, I needed a little comfort.
I turned on some music and rolled out the dough, my head still full of thoughts of Jason. I hoped Stephen would come home soon. More and more I wanted to talk the situation over with someone, and Stephen was almost as good as a bestie girlfriend in a situation like this.
Stephen and I had a sort of unofficial arrangement that I’d take care of the housekeeping and cooking in return for being able to stay for several weeks. So far, I was having fun and felt like I probably had the better part of the deal. Stephen had a housekeeper come in once a week to clean anyway, so aside from washing some dishes and folding up the pull-out couch every morning, I didn’t have much housework to do. Which left cooking.
When I traveled, I usually stayed in hostels or guesthouses, and only rarely cooked for myself. But I enjoyed it, and the novelty of having a whole kitchen to myself hadn’t yet worn thin. With a kitchen like Stephen’s to play in, I doubted it would. He rarely cooked for himself, preferring to eat out if he didn’t have someone to cook for him, but his kitchen gleamed with every conceivable high-end cooking gadget. Patrick had been the cook in their relationship, and had left the cabinets well stocked with spices, specialty oils and vinegars, and unusual liqueurs. I was having fun experimenting. With the help of the internet, I was planning entire meals around appliances, like his vegetable spiralizer or the Blendtec, and the fancy ingredients I found in the cupboards.
As I chopped vegetables, I thought about the summer four years ago, when I’d met Stephen at a rooftop beer garden in Hong Kong. I was nannying for a British family, and had fallen
Chapter 6
Monica
I trudged back to Stephen’s apartment in the afternoon. I’d written most of the article and run a few errands, but somehow I’d never gotten around to taking the ring to the jeweler.
Stephen’s apartment wasn’t large, but it was in an expensive high-rise, and had an amazing view of Lake Michigan. It had been beautifully decorated by Stephen’s ex-boyfriend, Patrick, an interior designer. The furniture consisted mainly of sleek, black leather couches and chairs, and stainless steel tables with glass tops. The floor was a darkly gleaming hardwood, covered with plush rugs, and the walls were decorated with abstract prints in thin black frames.
It was a very sophisticated, urban atmosphere. I admired the quality of decor and the consistency of the design, but I had to admit that it wasn’t really to my taste. If I ever settled down long enough to get a place of my own, I imagined filling it with the artifacts that I’d bought on my travels and had stored in my parents’ attic—African baskets, Asian porcelain, Latin American textiles, Middle Eastern rugs—my crazy, colorful, full-of-memories collection. Someday, I thought, it might be nice to have a cozy little apartment or house to come home to … but not yet.
I’d been staying with Stephen since I’d left my parents’ house, shortly after the holidays. My first choice, honestly, hadn’t been Chicago, especially in the dead of winter. Initially, I’d planned to come back in the fall and sublet a friend’s apartment in Miami, which I was quite looking forward to. But that had fallen through, and by the time Stephen had offered me an alternative, it was either stay with him or stay on the outskirts of Minneapolis, enduring both bad weather and pitying looks from my family. At least in Chicago, I’d only have the weather to contend with.
Once I’d shuffled out of my winter layers, I set a bag of frozen raspberries on the counter to defrost. I’d seen a bottle of Cointreau in the cupboard, and had come across a recipe the day before for raspberry-Cointreau sorbet, which sounded delicious, if not exactly seasonal. To make up for it, I decided to make chicken potpie for dinner. It was comfort food at its finest—and if I was honest about it, I needed a little comfort.
I turned on some music and rolled out the dough, my head still full of thoughts of Jason. I hoped Stephen would come home soon. More and more I wanted to talk the situation over with someone, and Stephen was almost as good as a bestie girlfriend in a situation like this.
Stephen and I had a sort of unofficial arrangement that I’d take care of the housekeeping and cooking in return for being able to stay for several weeks. So far, I was having fun and felt like I probably had the better part of the deal. Stephen had a housekeeper come in once a week to clean anyway, so aside from washing some dishes and folding up the pull-out couch every morning, I didn’t have much housework to do. Which left cooking.
When I traveled, I usually stayed in hostels or guesthouses, and only rarely cooked for myself. But I enjoyed it, and the novelty of having a whole kitchen to myself hadn’t yet worn thin. With a kitchen like Stephen’s to play in, I doubted it would. He rarely cooked for himself, preferring to eat out if he didn’t have someone to cook for him, but his kitchen gleamed with every conceivable high-end cooking gadget. Patrick had been the cook in their relationship, and had left the cabinets well stocked with spices, specialty oils and vinegars, and unusual liqueurs. I was having fun experimenting. With the help of the internet, I was planning entire meals around appliances, like his vegetable spiralizer or the Blendtec, and the fancy ingredients I found in the cupboards.
As I chopped vegetables, I thought about the summer four years ago, when I’d met Stephen at a rooftop beer garden in Hong Kong. I was nannying for a British family, and had fallen
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