“I know.”
Opal is asleep before the next cartoon starts. I pull her blanket up, leave her door cracked, and come back to find him still in my kitchen, which surprises me. I’d expected him to be moving toward the door, but he’s leaning against the counter with his muscular arms crossed. Not impatiently. Just waiting.
It’s not only his arms that are muscled. His boulder shoulders are barely contained in his black pullover sweater. I don’t know what I expected a house-call doctor to wear, but it isn’t a sweater that accentuates his narrow waist. Or the black pants that fit all too well.
Again, I don’t know what to say. “Coffee?”
“I like coffee.”
So I get another pot started. “What can I expect with the new script?”
He hits the medical logistics—the timeline, what to watch for, when she should turn the corner. “I would be surprised if she doesn’t turn a corner within the next day or so.”
“I know I keep saying it, but thank you. For everything.” I set out the cream and sugar, and he dresses his cup.
A silent nod, and then, “What is it that you do?”
“I work for a call center. I’m a supervisor in all but name. And paycheck.”
When I tell people that, I get pity or unsolicited advice on how to change things. Occasionally, there’s gentle shade thrown atme for not reaching my full potential. Mostly, that comes from Mom.
But Dario doesn’t offer any of it. “How does the call volume work?”
I blink at him for a moment. No one ever asks a follow-up question. “Eh, we usually have around sixty calls waiting at a time. Not too bad. I know some places where it’s in the hundreds.”
“Is there a pattern to the difficult calls?”
Again, I’m at a loss, because I’ve never gotten a real question, much less a follow-up. I answer it more honestly than I planned to. He asks another. I keep going. I’m not sure I’ve ever had a real conversation about my job before, and it’s refreshing.
I’m describing the wall I build, the way you have to go slightly absent from yourself to let the calls slide off, the way you come home and have to remember who you were before the headset, and I notice him watching me with the same quality of attention he gave Opal, and it does something that I’m not prepared for. Makes the words come out less managed.
He’s listening to me. When was the last time that happened? My thought is interrupted when he says, “You do this thing.”
“What thing?”
“Where you’re about to say something real, and you catch it and say something easier instead.”
I look at him. I’ve known people for years who haven’t noticed that. “Most people don’t catch that.”
Those deep, dark eyes narrow. “So, why do you soften everything you say?”
The thought is there—deflect. Soften it. Make the truth pretty. Don’t tell him the real reason, because you need him to like you, or he might go away, and Opal needs him.
But he asked a real question, and that deserves the real answer. “Because I’m a single mom.”
That earns his frown. “I don’t follow.”
“When women don’t varnish the truth, people don’t like them as much. When people don’t like you as much, they don’t help out.” I shrug. “Being a single mom?—”
“You can’t afford the truth.”
I’m fighting a wince. “I hope that doesn’t make me sound like a terrible person to you, after you helped us?—”
He laughs, and I get the feeling he’s not used to it, because he makes a confused face afterward. It’s only a second, but I clocked it. Dario shakes his head. “You don’t sound terrible to me at all for that. You’re doing what you need to in order to protect Opal and yourself. That’s primal, Lena. Necessary, even. I’ve never minded being manipulated by a beautiful woman, but you haven’t manipulated me into being here.”
Did he just call me beautiful? I can’t tell.
I swallow my coffee down. “Honestly, I’m not even sure when I’m softening things to make people like me anymore. It’s just?—”
