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I made braised pork chops for lunch. Thankfully, Sam isn’t a picky eater. So far everything I’ve cooked for him has gotten his approval. Just as we sit at the island to eat, I watch Shaw, freshly showered after his morning work out, stride into the kitchen and open the refrigerator. He removes his containers of ‘death to inflammation’ food and places them on the counter. I glance at Sam and notice his gaze is downcast as he eats, avoiding eye contact with his uncle. Shaw’s eyes flicker to my plate, then his containers.
“I made some extra if you want.” I point to the covered pan on the stove. He looks torn. When his eyes return to my plate, however, there’s a hunger in them that makes me want to laugh. It’s like I offered a diabetic a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts. Not waiting for a response I may never get, I go to the stove and fix him a plate, and set it down with utensils next to Sam’s seat. Then I return to mine. Shaw slowly sits down and begins to eat his meal.
The silence is stifling.
Most days during lunch, Sam chatters about the afternoon lesson plan. He’s a sweet, curious child. An only child, he’s told me. We haven’t spoken much about his mother; it’s still too soon for me to press him on that sensitive subject. But I now know that he loves trains, building things, and animals. I know he’s not very athletic, although he’s tall for his age––a Shaw gene, no doubt. He loves to read, but his favorite subject is mathematics. And of course he’s naturally introverted. So it’s not surprising that he’s intimidated by the gruff hairy giant sitting next to him. Today he’s completely mute. I don’t know how this chasm between these two started, but I know I have to find a way to bridge it.
“Knock, knock,” I say from the open doorway of his office. Shaw pauses the game footage he’s watching on a flat screen television. His desk chair is tipped back, legs crossed at the ankles, feet propped up on the edge of the desk. His head turns to me and I watch his eyes shamelessly work all the way down the length of my body.
If I didn’t know what he really thinks about me, this wouldn’t be an issue. But I do. My ears are suddenly on fire. I’m wearing work out clothes. Black leggings and a body skimming, technical shirt. Nothing sexy, nothing’s hanging out. The fact that I’ve never been self-conscious wearing these clothes before and now am because of one man makes my blood boil.
“Where are you going?” The warm baritone, a voice that on anyone else I would find panty torching, is ‘nails on a chalkboard’ level annoying on him. There’s an accusation in his tone, something snide in the way he says this. I cross my arms because if I don’t, I may take my sneaker off and throw it at his head. Where did I get the idea that I could actually befriend this beast?
“To the strip club, for my shift. Where does it look like I’m going?”
“Out for a run when it’s dark out.”
Huh? “It’s five thirty,” I feel the need to point out.
“And dark out. It’s dangerous. Use the gym,” he says and hits the play button on the game footage, his attention returning to the screen. I walk into his office and plop down in the armchair in front of his desk.
“I can appreciate your obsession with my safety, Mr. Shaw––” At the word obsession, I get a cynical, sideways glance. Then his eyes return to the game.
“Calvin.”
“Calvin…Willie, whatevs.” His head swivels to face me again, his expression genuinely confused.
“Willie?”
“Robertson. Your fashion idol.”
His black eyebrows lower, lower again, his lids grow heavy. I may have just gone too far but the die has been cast.
“You think I look like Willie Robertson?”
You think I look like a cow, pops into my head, though thankfully it does not come out of my mouth. His lips twitch, and twitch again. Then they curl up ever so slightly. He strokes his beard.
“You don’t like my beard.”
“I’m sure the vermin that call it home luv it.”
“Is this what you came in here for?”
“We need to talk about Sam.” The mild amusement drops off his face, his expression suddenly uncomfortable. “What about him?”
“Did something happen between you two that I should know about? He shuts down around you and I’d like to know if there’s something more to this besides your super duper charming personality.”
“Nothing’s happened,” he says. I don’t miss the way his muscles tighten. His feet swing off the desk and hit the floor with a thud, his posture now defensive. I’m confused. My gut tells me that there’s more to this story, though I don’t press. I recognize the mulish expression on Shaw’s face. It looks just like the one Sam wears when he’s having trouble with a math equation.
