He peers into half of one of his. “Cabbage, meat, and…deliciousness.”
“I like that recipe. How was work?”
“I spent half the day fielding questions about where you were. Our customers can’t handle you being gone two days in a row.”
“Aww. People missed me?”
“We all did.”
Aww.
“I think I’ll be able to come in tomorrow.”
He frowns over at me. “You’ll take as much time as you need. Customers can wait.”
When he uses that stern voice, every cell in my body perks up, ready to do as he says. Super unhelpful at the moment.
“Did you want to tell me what had you upset when you opened the door?” he asks after a few minutes.
Now I’m the one frowning. “I thought you didn’t notice things about me.”
“Lies and deception.”
I exhale a laugh, spinning noodles on my fork. “I don’t know where to start.”
Probably not with my childhood, where I was both the center of attention and the focus of criticism. Gentle criticism, of course, and well-intentioned. But even given out of love, constant critiques chip away at you.
“What does your cabin look like?” I ask.
“You were upset thinking about my cabin?”
“No. I’m just curious.”
“It’s, ah…” He moves his mostly empty plate to the coffee table. “Spartan is a good word for it. There’s an entryway where I keep my coats and boots. Storage bins for extra outdoor gear. The main room has a wood burning stove, a kitchenette with a table and chair. And, uh, the bed. That’s about it.”
“Does it suit you, do you think?” That’s what he said when he saw my room the night of the raccoon incident.It suits you.But that’s the only part of the house that does.
His jaw works beneath his beard. “Probably not.”
“If you had a house to fill, what would you do with it?”
He elbows the stiff back of the couch we’re on. “I’d start with something more comfortable than this.”
I laugh, thrilled by his priorities. “That’s the first thing to go. Along with the crunchy blanket. I’d want a couch that’s perfect for reading or taking a nap. Something cozy.”
“Cozy sounds good.”
“My parents don’t want me to change the house.” I told myself not to, but blurting things out is freeing. Little weights lifting off my soul every time I overshare with him.
He takes a long, slow breath, as if he’s choosing his words carefully.
“That’s garbage.”
Or maybe he’s not. I can’t help my cackle. “I can count on you to say what you really think.”
He doesn’t respond, just ticks his jaw as he watches me.
“I think they plan to go back to living here when they’re done traveling.” I should have asked. Probably should have said a lot of things.
