As I read deeper into the details, I realized I had stopped walking when my eyes caught the date of his obituary. August 21st, 2006. Today was August 21st.
Today was the anniversary of her father’s car crash. Of her father’s death.
My heart sank into my stomach, and I felt sick for her. I wasn’t sure how much time had passed since she had left, but I needed to see her. I needed to hear her voice—something, anything.
Before I could second guess myself, I dialled her number and pressed the phone to my ear. The rings carried through the lineand then stopped. She picked up, but didn’t say anything. The open line was filled with the sound of her soft breaths.
“I need to see you,” I said, matter-of-factly, sounding as confident as I could muster.
She exhaled. “Why?”
I huffed out a subtle chuckle. “Because, Lennon, I just want to. And I’m sick of wondering whether I should or shouldn’t call—whether I should or shouldn’t suggest hanging out, which I am, by the way. I hate pushing you, but I think part of you craves it.”
She sounded like she was searching for a logical response and coming up empty, so I took advantage of the silence.
“Little siren,” I said softly, “indulge me. You don’t have plans. I don’t have plans. So I have an idea—bucket list time. Let’s go volunteer tonight.”
Lennon
Ihad no energy left to fight him. If I was being honest with myself, I didn’t want to anymore. I needed his distraction. I didn’t care if I wasn’t good enough. He tried so hard to be present in my life, and today I had no fight left to push him away. So there we were, standing in line to help at a local soup kitchen, waiting to help serve hot meals to the underhoused. Never in a million years had I thought I’d be doing something like this—especially next to someone like Asher.
When we had made our bucket list, we hadn’t been under the impression that we would actually complete any of it. But there was something good about what we were doing. It felt full circle for me in a lot of ways. There had been many times in my life when I’d had to visit soup kitchens just to get a hot meal—or any meal at all, for that matter.
And Asher?
He felt it important to be exposed to things he’d never had to experience in his lifetime. It was an interesting perspective—that he recognized how much privilege his life had afforded him and wanted to ensure he wasn’t ignorant to the lives that struggled, simply because he never had to. It was a part of what made him beautiful in his own right.
As we stood in line next to one another, his hand grazed mine accidentally. I jolted my hand away instinctively, but when hetilted his head lazily in my direction, he reached out and laced his fingers through mine with blatant intention.
The feeling was warm. Comforting. His hands connected with mine so easily. The warmth that rippled across my skin gave me a strange sense of security. Why was he doing this? Why was he making everything feel so difficult and convoluted?
He leaned into me, his shoulder pressed against mine, tugging my hand closer and pressing his lips to my hair as he whispered, “Thank you for coming with me tonight.”
I glanced down toward the floor, feeling a hint of contentment I didn’t always feel—if ever. A flutter stirred in my belly. I nodded because I couldn’t find the words, then smiled up at him once I found the courage to meet his eyes without tearing up.
Why did he make me feel like I was constantly on the edge of tears?
God, my dad would have loved someone like him for me…
The thought snapped me sober.Why had I just thought that?I fixed my gaze straight ahead at the volunteer coordinator as she assigned us our stations for our shift. I needed to remember to keep those walls up. Lock them down. Throw away the fucking key.
When we reached the table, she handed us our assignments, Asher eager as she spoke. We were both sent to the kitchen in the back to prepare vegetables for the hot meals. This worked for me—it meant I didn’t have to face the public just yet. It felt less overwhelming.
Without skipping a beat, Asher grabbed a pair of aprons from the wall along with hair nets, then walked to the sink to wash his hands before claiming space at the potato peeling station. I took my place beside him, peeling carrots and following his lead as he worked with easy confidence.
The work was monotonous, but it felt good. There was something inside me that had forgotten how being useful could give me a sense of self—a sense of belonging. Rows of people laughed as they worked away, clearly familiar with one another. They had been doing this for a long time. They had built connections, a small community, right here in this very kitchen.
This was nice.
“I haven’t seen you around here before,” a voice said, pulling my attention away.
I glanced up to find a tall, soft-spoken man standing nearby. He wore a bright smile, the kind that suggested he was always this cheerful, even while cooking food for strangers. He leaned casually against the counter.
I cleared my throat. “Yeah. It’s my first time.”
He presented that beaming smile once more, “Well, we’re glad to have you. If you need anything, I’m your guy. I’ve been volunteering here for years now.”
I nodded as he spoke, and he suddenly shook his head.
