They pull over and park on the side of a dusty, dirt- and gravel-packed road alongside the river, where it curves lazily under a covered bridge and disappears away in the distance like a silver coil. Above them, one hot air balloon rises in the dusky late-evening sunshine, then two, then three. Within twenty minutes, the entire sky is filled with them. The one closest to them is a patchwork of canary yellow and bright red squares. She watches it rise, pausing to sneak a quick sideways glance at him—just as rapt—then turns back to witness the continued ascent. His hand, broad and calloused, brushes against hers and her heart seems to mirror the ballon: so light and full it might burst out of her chest.
Summer, she thinks. Summer is the best time with him.
But then it’s January. She boards a Greyhound bus at the Boston terminal and drives three hours to the small depot in Brunswick. During the ride, he messages her, asking how her project is coming and what she’s doing for dinner. She answers as if she’s home: The writing is slow but she’s got the introduction almost finished; she’s meeting Julia and Matthew for samosas at 7 PM at The Maharaja for a break.
When she disembarks, the passengers in front of her disappear into the darkness as they step onto the street. She’s too nervous to pay much attention and one of her leather boots is swallowed by a puddle of icy slush when it hits the ground. The sidewalks are covered with drifts of snow. Across the street, the neon lights of the dive bar frequented by skint graduate students looking for cheap beer and endless plates of wings blink in the inky darkness. The storefronts are all lit up, and a restaurant with huge picture windows glows invitingly from within.
She walks towards it: It’s where he eats meals almost daily after his single lecture wraps up—the waiters know him and the hostesses blush when he walks in (he teases the older ones and leaves excellent tips). She has learned that being dean of the university is, in a small university town, akin to being the mayor. His apartment is just two blocks away: the top floor of a pretty white building with a wraparound porch and green shutters.
She steps inside the restaurant and shakes the snow from her coat, hanging it up in the vestibule and moving into the main room, where a long bar lines one wall and the rest of the space is taken up with tables and a roaring fire. The room smells savory and rich, like browned butter and roasting meat and something else…crisp French fries? Pasta in a mushroom cream sauce? There’s a single empty seat at the bar and she takes it, studying the menu, which is printed on a long thin card of heavy cream paper.
She takes a quick photo of the menu and sends him a text, “Do you think the Flight Plan cocktail or the Long, Dark, Bright is better for a Wednesday night?”
No response comes, and she only has to wait three minutes until he’s standing in front of her, grinning and breathless, as surprised as she’d hoped he’d be.
His face is as lit up as the restaurant. “How are you here right now?” he laughs. “You’re having Indian food and writing a grant proposal!”
That night, he wraps her in one of his flannel shirts and tells her stories, his lips making whispered sounds into her hair. He’s telling her about summer camp: the July when he learned to sail a Sunfish on a lake in Michigan, and he capsized in front of a girl named Clare McKinsey on whom he’d a ferocious crush. He smells like Dial soap and clean laundry and a hint of his spicy, musky cologne, a scent that she forever associates with starched white shirts and the tiny, fine hairs on the back of a man’s neck. The snow starts falling thickly outside and she can see it making a pattern in the golden light of the streetlamps.
Winter, she thinks. Winter is the best time with him.
The third Wednesday in April is unseasonably warm. The grass on the Boston Common is barely visible beneath the people lounging: College girls sunbathing on their stomachs, shirts pulled up and stacks of textbooks beside them; kids running in giddy, sun-drunk circles around the duck pond; a dozen high-school boys tossing a frisbee that hangs for a moment, aloft and bright, in the gentle afternoon breeze. She’s waiting for her sister, who is perpetually running late—not a habit but an actual character trait that she stubbornly refuses to acknowledge or address. Someone kicks a soccer ball close to her and she noses it back with the tip of her ballet flat, then slips off both shoes and tucks her feet beneath her on a wooden bench. The sun warms her shoulders and she can almost feel the freckles beginning to dapple the bridge of her nose.
“Hey,” she hears from behind her, and turns to see her sister in a navy silk tank with delicate straps and a pair of wide-legged striped trousers that hug her hips. Her lips are painted bright red and her curls are loose and wild around her face. They look nothing alike, and she marvels—as always—at how dissimilar two siblings can appear: Green eyes and blue eyes; smoothly olive skin and pale, freckled skin that burns easily.
She stands up and they start to walk towards the street where traffic is building up, everyone eager to rush home to savor the unexpectedly beautiful evening. The debate is dinner: Tacos outside where they can drink margaritas (one classic with salt, one with mezcal and blood orange) or a quick pasta at her place or take-out falafel sandwiches and hummus so they can eat in the sun alongside the Charles.
She’s about to argue in favor of tacos—this day was made for a margarita—when her phone dings and she looks down to see a photo: He’s standing on a dock next to a white Catalina 25, the triangular sail jaunty against the blue water. New York Yacht Club, Saturday, 8 AM? it reads. His family has belonged to the club in Newport for generations; he spent his summers there, taking day trips to Block Island and eating club sandwiches in the sun by the marina.
She doesn’t realize that she’s grinning until her sister elbows her. “Hello? Tacos? Who just texted you? Why are you smiling like that?”
What could she say? That since she met him, she has had the strangest sensation—like she’s suspended in a bubble where everyone and everything else becomes blurred, leaving just the two of them and their nerve endings in sharp relief? Or that at the same time she is sure that this is the most real life has ever felt, as if she’s never entirely inhabited her body fully until now?
She tucks her phone into her pocket. “Tacos, and then you’re buying me a croissant brownie for dessert.” (They both agree that the croissant brownie is the ultimate in portable desserts: A brilliant confection dreamed up by the French cafe below her apartment, in which they crumble chunks of day-old croissants into brownie batter before baking it.)
“And, no one,” she says, “I’m smiling because it’s warm and I love you.” And him, she thinks. Spring is the best time with him.
*Note: I like to use day-old, slightly stale croissants for this recipe but obviously any will be fine. They soak up the batter nicely—I haven’t tried other baked goods but I’m thinking, similar to bread pudding, that you could try all kinds of things like chunks of sourdough bread or biscuits or plain doughnuts.
Croissant Brownies
Makes one 9” pan
150 grams (11 tablespoons) unsalted butter
200 grams (1 1/4 cup) chopped dark chocolate (I use 60%)
175 grams (7/8 cup) granulated sugar
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
3 eggs
80 grams (2/3 cup) all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 large croissants, torn into bite-size pieces
Preheat the oven to 350° F. Line a 9" square pan with parchment paper.
Melt the butter and chocolate together over a double boiler. Once melted, set aside to cool slightly.
Once cooled a bit, whisk the sugar and vanilla into the chocolate mixture until smooth.
Whisk in the eggs, one at a time.
Fold in the salt and flour, and mix until the batter is combined.
Fold in the croissant pieces, then pour the batter into the prepared pan. Bake for 30 to 35 minutes, or until a tester inserted in the center comes out with just a few crumbs. Do not overbake!
Remove from the oven and let cool fully before slicing and serving.