The Pairing: Special 1st Edition

THE BEGINNING

(Theo’s Version)

The first time I kiss Kit, he tastes like jalapeños and apricots.

We’re drunk enough to be brave. Some guys from the restaurant have thrown a Halloween party at their rental house in Cathedral City, and there is a trash can full of mystery punch, and we’re twenty-two, the age at which trash-can punch sounds genius instead of evil. I did add a few glugs of apricot brandy from the liquor shelf to take the edge off, at least.

For the last four months since Kit moved to Palm Springs and in with me, we’ve been talking Halloween costumes. Slutty M&M’s. Ralph Macchio and the bully from The Karate Kid. Kit came up with Sonny and Cher—he’s Cher, I’m Sonny. He found the perfect slinky silk shift on consignment in LA, even made me lace him into a waist corset before he slipped the dress on, because he’s never met a bit he couldn’t commit to. Not even trash punch could erase the texture of his skin from my fingertips.

After, when we’re eating delivery pizza off our coffee table, Kit decides it’s time to finally talk about it.

We’ve never addressed it, not since he returned to California for college and we slipped into each other’s pockets like we’d never been apart, right to the synced, steady heartbeat of us. Theo-and-Kit, Theo-and-Kit, Theo-and-Kit. It was so easy to find the pulse, we didn’t talk about where it had gone, or why.

Kit looks at me over a stuffed crust with extra jalapeños and asks, “Why didn’t you ever want to go to Oklahoma City?”

Because it’s Oklahoma City, I almost say. But the place was never what mattered; it was the promise. When we were fourteen, a year after Kit’s mom died, his dad decided to move the whole family to New York. Kit and I got out a map and found the midpoint between Rancho Mirage and Brooklyn. Oklahoma City. We promised to meet there every summer, but I always found excuses not to go, and they were never that good.

His brown eyes are so sparkly in the lamplight, framed by his stupid Cher wig, that I tell him the truth, partly: When he left, I realized I’d fallen in love with my best friend when I wasn’t looking. And then he was five hundred miles too far for it to matter, telling me about first dates over the phone, and it hurt too much. Oklahoma City would have broken my heart.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “It was shitty of me. I was shitty to you.”

“Oh” is all he says.

“I’m totally over it now,” I say, which is a lie. I’ve never been more under it. I thought living with Kit would be great exposure therapy, that nobody could stay in love with their best friend after watching them scratch their ass through sweatpants. If anything, I love Kit more now. “So you don’t have to worry. I’m not gonna make it weird.”

Kit sets down his slice and studies me, my stick-on mustache, hair braided back to fit under my bowl-cut wig. He bites out a smile, tucks Cher’s hair behind his ear, and says, “I was in love with you too.”

“You—what?”

“Back then, I mean.”

I nod, trying to keep my voice steady. “Right. Back then.”

And he laughs, so I laugh, and I put on Sonny & Cher to cover up how weird mine sounds. We dance around the living room with grease-slicked lips to “I Got You Babe” until my hand brushes Kit’s cinched waist.

I catch the ends of shiny, synthetic hair between my thumb and finger, touch him without touching him. He reaches up and peels off my mustache.

“What if we tried it?” he asks softly. “Just once, to see what it would be like?”

And then I’m in my best friend’s bed, kissing him dizzy. Just to see what it’s like.

At the bottom of my belly, I know this will change me in a permanent way. Maybe it’s wrong, maybe it’s completely fucked up to let him do this when I know how I feel and how he doesn’t, but it’s Kit. Kit loves to make people feel good, and when he buries his face between my legs, I feel good. I feel so good it’s awful.

He’ll laugh about it tomorrow, and every person I take to bed from now on will be fighting his ghost for my attention.

In the morning, the kitchen smells like cinnamon and butter and yeast, and Kit’s at the sink, doing dishes. He’s wearing the apron I bought him when we road-tripped up to the Santa Maria Valley to find out if the barbecue was worth the hype. It says, THIS GUY RUBS HIS OWN MEAT.

The table is set with two plates, steam curling and icing dripping from golden-brown dough. Kit bakes from scratch every weekend, and he’s been in pursuit of the perfect cinnamon roll recipe for years.

I made a lot of promises to myself when I was falling asleep next to him. I would be cool. It was nothing but a laugh. Two old friends hooking up for old times’ sake, pouring one out for the lovestruck kids we used to be.

He smiles at me from the sink, still wearing the bruise I bit into his neck, and I say, “I lied. I never got over it.”

Kit lets out a long breath. He turns off the water. And then he says the most incredible thing he could possibly say.

He says, “Neither did I.”

THE END

(Theo’s Version)

There’s a dildo on the luggage carousel.

It’s not my dildo. Not that I didn’t bring one, but Kit would never pack ours so carelessly that it could just flop out of my suitcase and go tumbling through baggage claim. There are rules for these things.

I’m alone in London Heathrow, watching the dildo go round and round. It’s purple, shortish but a perfectly respectable girth. On its fourth rotation, I finally step forward and pull my bag off the belt, but I don’t move toward the exit.

I don’t know where Kit is.

Seven, eight, nine, ten times the dildo goes around before a straight-faced airport employee snaps on some gloves and takes it away in a plastic baggie.

I check the time: thirty-five minutes since Kit walked away. I’m too angry to cry, but I have about half an hour until I come completely, spectacularly unglued. I’ll email the tour company later to explain why we never made it, see if I can get a refund. Right now, I just want to go home.

From the British Airways ticketing line, I watch a nervous young couple approach the lost and found to collect their wayward dildo. They’re in the kind of love worth getting humiliated at baggage claim. They leave together, pink-faced and laughing into each other’s shoulders. How fucking sweet.

I ask the agent behind the counter, “What time is the next nonstop to Los Angeles?”

FOUR YEARS LATER

LONDON

PAIRS WELL WITH:

Pimm’s Cup, tea-dipped scone eaten in a furious rush

“I don’t care if you give me two hundred pounds and a hand job, Trevor, you’re cut off.” I push the crumpled notes back across the bar, smiling sweetly. “Go home. Work on yourself. Your personality is bad, and not in a fun way.”

At last Trevor relents, allowing himself to be hauled toward the pub’s exit by two other West Ham fans as the crowd cheers another goal on the overhead telecast. One of the Spurs lads he was harassing raises his beer in gratitude. I shake my head and toss a towel over my shoulder, ducking down to finish detaching the blown keg.

“It’s always Trevor,” sighs a bartender. “Absolute fucking wet wipe.”

I snort. “Every bar has one.”

The bartender gives me a commiserative wink, then does a double take.

“Hold on. Who’re you?”

“I’m—” I finally get the keg unhooked and drag it out with a grunt. “—Theo.”

“When’d they hire you, then?”

“Oh, he let me behind the bar because I can change a keg.” I jerk my chin toward the sweaty manager doing his damnedest to keep up with orders. It didn’t take much to convince him to accept some free help. “I don’t work here. I don’t even live here. I got off a plane like two hours ago. Hey!” I snap my towel at a Spurs fan trying to climb on top of his barstool. “Come on, man, be smarter.”

The bartender frowns appreciatively.

“Been to London before?”

I grin. “No, but I’ve seen a lot of movies.”

Truthfully, I haven’t been much of anywhere outside California. There was that close call a couple summers ago when Sloane was filming in Berlin and invited me to come live for free in her hotel suite, but—no, I wasn’t ready. I don’t typically trust myself in unfamiliar places or circumstances. I’ve lived in the Coachella Valley almost my entire twenty-eight years, because it has mountains and desert and huge skies and ravens the size of dogs, and because I already know all the ways I can fail there.

But I’m ready now. I think—I know I’m ready. Every muscle in my body has been coiled for weeks as the squares on the calendar went by, ready to spring, to find out what I’m capable of. I love knowing what I’m capable of.

Other than one cataclysmic morning at Heathrow, this is my first time overseas, which is probably why I’ve put myself behind the bar in a crowded pub during a football grudge match. I jumped off the airport train with all of London at my feet, and instead of museums or palaces or Westminster Abbey, I cut a straight path to the nearest pub and elbowed my way into my element. I’m capable of this, mediating bar fights and slamming valves and shouting friendly insults at guys named Trevor, learning the local drinking customs, tasting the regional spirits. I study fauna at their watering hole like it’s National Geographic. I’m the Steve Irwin of having a pint with the lads.

The whole idea of this trip, when Kit and I first booked it, was exactly that: learning. We used to fantasize about opening a restaurant one day, and one night after our fifth consecutive episode of No Reservations, Kit had the idea. He found a guided European food and wine tour where we could experience the best and richest of flavors, the most storied traditions of breaking bread, the perfect full-senses immersion to inspire our work. The full Bourdain, he said, which made me instantly fall in love with him all over again.

We saved for a year to book it, and then we broke up on the flight, and Kit fucked off to Paris, and I never saw him again. The reservation was nonrefundable. I came home with a broken heart, a travel-sized bottle of fourteen-year whiskey we’d planned to drink at the final stop in Palermo, and a trip voucher valid for forty-eight months. I told myself that, on month forty-seven, I would take the trip by myself, for me. I’ll stand on the beach and drink our whiskey to mark how far I’ve come. To commemorate being finally, completely over Kit.

And here I am, in a pub five minutes from Trafalgar Square, muscling a new keg into position, being incredibly brave and independent and sexy of my own volition.

I can do this. I’m the Crocodile Hunter. I will learn, and I will have fun, and I will take it all back to the Somm at work and my kitchen at home where I come up with my own recipes. I will be my best, most confident, most competent self. I will not cram my stuff into my pack in a big tangled wad every morning or drop my phone in the Arno or leave my ID on an airport toilet paper dispenser (again). And I will not, at any point, wish I was doing it with Kit.

I barely even think of him anymore.

I kick the keg the final inch into place with the toe of my boot, then twist the coupler in and push the lever down.

“Guinness is back!”

When I stand, the manager is watching, his face ruddy and bemused. He pulls a half-pint from the new keg and passes it to me.

“You work in a pub back home?” he asks.

I take a sip. “Something like that.”

“Well,” he says, “you’re welcome to finish the shift. Match’s almost over, but Liverpool’s on at three.”

“At—at three?” My stomach drops. “Is it already—?”

Over a tattered leather booth by the door, a clock shaped like a Scottish terrier declares sixteen minutes to three.

Sixteen minutes until my tour bus leaves for Paris. Sixteen minutes until I lose my last shot at this trip, and a mile of unknown, untested London streets between this pub and the meeting point.

I whip the towel off my shoulder and do the unthinkable: chug my Guinness.

“I’m—eugh.” I suppress a burp that tastes like pure Irish vengeance. “I’m supposed to be at Russell Square in fifteen minutes.”

The manager and bartender exchange a grim look.

“You’d better get your skates on, then,” the manager says.

I hand him my empty glass and scoop up my pack.

“Gentlemen.” I salute. “It’s been an honor.”

And I take off running.