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"Not weird. Just interesting," he assured me, seeming to pick up on a small bit of insecurity I felt in admitting that I was, essentially, a bastard, and that I never grew up knowing a male role model.
"Got a lot of friends, Rey?" he asked after a moment of silence.
"Do feathered and furry ones count?" His smirk was all the answer I needed. "Then no. Why?"
"When I asked if you wanted coffee, you curled up your nose like I offered you fried caterpillars. But you have a whole shelf full of coffee up there," he said, indicating my cabinets.
"Oh, well coffee is medicinal sometimes. And you can stain things with it for projects instead of using all the chemical stuff."
Whatever he was about to say to that was cut off by the sound of Cheryl coming in the front door, calling out hello as she did, then being attacked with love by the dogs she had met on more than a dozen occasions when I had an animal I needed her to come and take from me.
I guess Cheryl was as close to a friend as I had. I figured it said a lot about my need for a supplemental maternal figure that she was about sixty, graying and wrinkling unashamedly, and liked getting muddy and covered in animal hair and scratches and bites much like myself... and Babcia.
She walked into the kitchen a moment later, dogs at her heels, wearing her usual gray work pants and green tucked in shirt, this time with a heavy matching rugged outdoor coat on top.
"I hear you got a... oh," she said, coming to a complete stop mid-stride when her eyes fell on Reeve. "Well, hello there," Cheryl said with what could only be described as an appreciative smile. Unlike my mother and Babcia, Cheryl was very much into men. The day she turned fifty-five, she had packed up her moderately-sized townhouse to move into a small apartment in an adult community because, as she told me, there were all kinds of wild, no-strings-attached sex going on over at that place. She said it had something to do with people realizing their times were running low, and most had lost their spouses years before, and decided they would regret not having all the wild, crazy sex they wanted more than they would regret having it.
"Cheryl, this is Reeve. Reeve, my friend Cheryl from the animal rehabilitation center just outside of town."
"Nice to meet you, ma'am," Reeve greeted her, reaching out to offer his hand.
"Oh, and he has manners. I believe, dear," she said, turning to look at me, but refusing to let go of Reeve's hand. In fact, she brought her other hand up to rub the top of it. "This is where I am supposed to jokingly suggest you poke a hole in that condom."
Cheryl, like me, had not been burdened with a filter. It was one of the many things I liked about her.
"Think Rey can keep herself a man without getting knocked up," Reeve countered, giving me a small smile that Cheryl seemed to melt over.
"Oh, I like him. He better be around the next time I have to stop by to pick up some random animal you come upon," she said, letting Reeve go, moving to pet Ford through the bars, and then squatting down next to Bandit's cage. "Oh, he will rehab just fine. He's a pretty healthy looking fella. A couple months around some of the other raccoons, and he will be thriving," she announced, picking up the whole crate to take with her. She would bring it back some other time. I had a feeling she had a crate in her truck, but was using this as an excuse to come back and grill me about Reeve. "Nice to meet you, Reeve. I will get out of your hair. Enjoy the rest of your day."
With that, my gaze went to the clock, realizing it was well into the afternoon, and I hadn't eaten anything but a few spoonfuls of the soup that made my belly feel wobbly this morning.
"Are you hungry?" I asked, putting my tea down in the sink.
"Haven't eaten today," he agreed, saluting me with his mug. "This has been holding me over."
"Okay, well, let me just see what I have in the fridge..." I started, moving past him toward it, finding my elbow snagged in one of his strong hands, the grip just a little too tight. My gaze lifted, and I guess he saw the hint of pain there, loosening up his hold.
"Don't cook." It was a demand. But, really, it was more of a plead. He was pleading with me not to cook. Seeing the question that I was trying to keep in, he shook his head a little sadly. "Just do me this one solid without asking me questions. Don't cook for me."
