“You came,” he says, like it surprises him.
“You sound surprised.”
“Little bit.” He steps back to let me in. “Wasn’t sure you’d beat the list.”
“What list?”
“The one in your head giving you reasons not to.”
He’s not wrong, and I hate that he’s not wrong. “It was a long list.”
“Yeah? What won?”
My ridiculous vagina won, but I don’t answer that.
I walk in instead.
The first thing that hits me is the smell. Garlic, something cooking low, warm. It does not match the apartment I built in my head on the drive over. That one was bleak. This one is too: three cardboard boxes shoved in a corner like he has no plans to ever open them, a mattress through one door, and one lamp. But the kitchen is alive. There’s a real knife on the wall. A pan of something going. A cutting board that’s worn and scratched in the middle.
“You cook?” I ask, surprised.
“I cook.” He goes back to the stove like it’s nothing. “Sit. The counter’s good.”
The counter is too close to him. I take the stool with the wall behind it and a clear view of the door, and he watches me do it and says nothing about it. He slides a glass across instead. Water, no ice.
I look at it. “No ice?”
“You said the sound of it makes you want to climb out of your skin three weeks ago by the trainer’s room.”
“You remembered that?”
“You keep acting like my knack for noticing shit is a magic trick. It’s just paying attention. People do it for stuff they care about.”
I drink the water, but I almost choke on it.
Care about?
Then I see the plates. He’s already made mine up, and the chicken’s on one side, the rice on the other, and the green beans are in their own little bowl. Separate. Nothing touching.
I go still on the stool.
“Caleb.”
“Hm.”
“The beans are in their own bowl.”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t ask you to do that.”
“I know.” He still doesn’t turn around. “It’s not a thing. Eat.”
“It’s a little bit of a thing.” My voice comes out funny. “People always give me shit for doing that.”
Now he turns around. “Who gave you shit?”
“Everyone.”
