“Grace, what is wrong with my father?”
“Now,” she says, her jaw clenched.
“Come on,” I say, leading him out of his room.
“I need to go back and see Eagle,” he says.
“Your mom is with Eagle,” I say.“You know as well as I do there’s nothing you can do for him.He knows how much you love him, Hawk.”
“No, he doesn’t.He doesn’t know.”
“He does.”I squeeze his hand.
“Let’s go home.Take me to your place.I’ll cook you a nice dinner and we can cuddle on the couch with a movie.”
* * *
Back at Hawk’s place,I prepare a quick dinner of Ajiaco soup and arepas.
The scent of simmering chicken, corn, and guascas fills the kitchen.Steam curls up from the pot, fogging the window above the sink, where the last streaks of daylight fade.I slice the avocados while the soup thickens.Hawk moves quietly in the background, opening a bottle of red wine.
The arepas sizzle on the griddle, the golden edges crisping, the faint crackle blending with the low hum of the refrigerator.I ladle the soup into deep bowls and top each with a swirl of cream and a sprinkle of fresh cilantro.When we finally sit, my knees brush Hawk’s under the surface.
Hawk takes his first bite.“This tastes like home,” he says.
His home or mine?
He must mean his, since as far as I know he’s never been to Colombia.But his mother is of Mexican descent, so he’s used to ethnic home cooking.
Or… Maybe he means that my cooking feels like home cooking.Like I’m his wife, fixing him a meal after he’s worked a long day on the ranch.
It’s been a weird day, but the thought warms me head to toe.
For a moment, we eat in silence, the kind that’s comfortable, the kind that says more than any conversation could.
Hawk has second helpings, which pleases me.He hasn’t been hungry.Hell, I haven’t either.But there’s something about comfort food.Kind of like the macaroni and cheese he made for me—his comfort food.This ismycomfort food.
When the bowls are scraped clean and the last buttery crumbs of arepa are gone, Hawk leans back in his chair with a satisfied sigh.
“That was exactly what I needed,” he says.“You’re going to be an amazing chef.”
I gather the dishes.“You’re just saying that because you got fed.”
“I’m saying it because it’s true.”He stands and helps me clear the table.
He stacks the bowls and sets them in the sink while I rinse them.His arm brushes mine when he reaches for the sponge, and neither of us moves away.
When the dishes are done, he tosses the towel onto the counter.“All right.We’ve eaten.Now what?Do we pretend we’re normal and watch a movie like regular people?”
“Why not?”I say.“I think we’ve earned some normal.”
Hawk gestures toward the leather couch in his large recreation room.“Pick your poison.”
I settle in with the remote, curling one leg under me.The couch is deep and broken in, the kind you can sink into and forget the outside world exists.Hawk drops down beside me, one arm stretched along the backrest, the other resting casually on his thigh—but close enough that if I shifted an inch, his hand would graze my shoulder.
I scroll through the streaming menu.“Romantic comedy?”I tease, glancing at him out of the corner of my eye.
He groans.“Don’t do that to me.”
