“Fine. I was blowing off steam.” It’s a poor defense, but I use it anyway.
It takes him a moment to reply and an even longer moment before he turns around. He might be facing me, but he cannot look me in the eye when he simply says, “I understand that.”
For the first time, I wonder if Danny is not as happy as he seems. If maybe he carries some kind of pain the way I do.
The pounding at the front door makes us both jump.
Before either of us has time to move, Paul has already let himself in. “Delivery! Roofing tiles and all that will be here tomorrow.” He points at Danny. “You and the boys should be here by nine at the latest.”
“You got it.”
“And, Callie? Get ready for some noise.”
“I’m ready.” I’m not ready but whatever.
Paul claps his hands together and marches himself into a seat at the dining table, and Danny plants himself next to his boss. My assumption that they’re going to talk work proves to be wrong when neither of them says anything for too long and when they are clearly trying too hard to look casual.
Oh. I get it. “Are either of you hungry? I have leftover chicken, if you—”
“If it’s not a problem,” Paul says.
“Sure, I could eat.” Danny pretends to read an urgent text.
“And I could do a salad with that—” I start.
“Yep!” they both answer my unfinished question.
I back into the kitchen slowly, as if they were both deranged. “So, you want me to feed you?”
Paul pivots a bit in his chair. “It’s because that omelet was so spot on…”
“We thought you might have something else,” Danny adds.
I pace the small kitchen and again chop up salad ingredients while the oven heats up. This is insane. Not only have I never had anyone ask me for food beyond the recent omelet requests, but I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone randomly think I’m qualified to provide anything.
It’s not a bad feeling at all.
And twenty minutes later, I find another small high when these two are silent and devouring their plates.
“Any chance this meal will kill the town laughter about my spatchcock chicken order?” I ask without hope as I drop into a chair. “Because this chickeninthe salad is the spatchcock…er, butterflied…chicken.”
“Nope!” Paul answers too quickly.
“Not likely, but we can try.” Danny kicks me under the table so that I look at him. “And Alex already loves your omelets. That’s huge. He’s a talker.”
“Fantastic. And he pretty much stole a hat.”
Danny nearly chokes, laughing. “You’ll get the hat back. It might take a minute, but be patient.” It takes him another minute to swallow and breathe normally. “A heads-up? Alex doesn’t always react like most people. He’s got his quirks that sometimes need a little patience, but I think you’ll figure him out pretty fast. And he loved your omelet, the way we all did. Although he’s hoping for breakfast sausage next time.”
“Nexttime?” I about shriek.
“He might have mentioned a Sunday brunch,” Danny says in a whisper. “You might want to get ready.”
