“Your face,” says Steve, “tastes like barbecue.” He kisses my eyelashes, considering. “Well seasoned.”
I assume he means the campfire smoke and the tears, but now I’m laughing, in spite of everything. I had locked myself in the bathroom to lean against the door and write and ugly cry until I could find the right words. At this point I had only just resurfaced.
He straightens up, away from a hug. I feel better.
Steve cooked a frozen pizza and got us a copy of The Neverending Story to watch, as a comfort movie. Now there is a shot of peanut butter whiskey and a frozen chocolate for dessert.
I think that I am in good hands.