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I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s gone by the time I come back, and I wouldn’t blame him.
Rick
* * *
Not what I was expecting.
I grew up with sisters, which in my case means I’m not new to emotional scenes. In the hands of my ex, emotions turned into a weapon she wielded to force her will, and that left me making it a mission to avoid getting sucked in by pretty tears.
But Dana’s tears weren’t pretty. What just happened here was an expression of grief in its rawest form, and oddly enough, none of it put me off. I’m actually pleased she chose me to hold on to while she let go.
I could tell she was embarrassed when she darted out of here, and is likely hiding out in the bathroom until I’m gone, but I don’t plan on going anywhere just yet. Instead, I grab a knife from the giant knife block, find a cutting board hanging on the wall, and get started on cutting the peppers, much like I did about a week ago.
When she returns five minutes later, her hair back into its tidy ponytail and her face freshly washed, her still red-rimmed, slightly swollen eyes show surprise.
“You’re still here.”
“Yep.” I flash her a grin as I continue to dice. Then I add, “I wasn’t going to walk out after that.”
“Yeah. Sorry about that,” she mumbles. “I don’t know what happened there. I don’t usually do that.”
Damn, guess I just made it more awkward.
“That makes two of us,” I confess. “I’m usually the first one out of the room at the sight of tears, so sticking around is new for me.”
My admission serves to at least get her moving from the spot, as she reaches for a second cutting board and picks an onion from the bowl on the counter.
“You don’t have to stick around, I’m fine now.”
“Meh, it’s a quiet day. Besides, I’m better at chopping peppers than I am at finding the right words to say in situations like this. I’d like to think I’ve at least been some kind of help.”
She glances up and shoots me a sad, soft smile, one that hits me right in the chest.
“Words weren’t what I needed, but your shoulder was a welcome spot to cry on, and I really appreciate the strong hug. I feel like I’ve been handing them out these past days, but I guess I needed one too. I really do feel better, so thank you.”
I’m surprised to find her comment pleases me as much as it does.
For the next little while I work alongside her, only exchanging a few words relating to the vegetables we’re slicing and dicing. Neither of us seems to feel the need to fill the silence with empty chatter, and she seems as comfortable as I am simply sharing space. Maybe that’s what has drawn me to her from the start, her capable, yet unassuming presence. Dana is a woman who seems at ease with herself and does not appear to feel the need to downplay flaws or emphasize assets. She is who she is, and I find that very attractive.
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I’m tempted to ignore it, annoyed at the disturbance, but my sense of duty has me take it out anyway.
Except, it’s not work calling, it’s my mother.
At my, “Hey, Ma,” Dana darts me a quick glance.
“Rico, mi hijo. ¿Está todo bien? Did something happen?” my mother adds in her accented English, sounding a little breathless.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know. You left a message; you never leave a message so I thought something was wrong.”
Translation: you don’t call me enough. I know my mother’s ways, and even though she invented the art of the guilt trip, I feel guilty anyway.
“Nothing’s wrong. I called to check in with you and you were obviously not home, so I left a message.”
“Dios mio! I thought something was wrong. I was cruising the Caribbean with my neighbor. I thought I told you?”
My mother uses the euphemism neighbor to refer to her frequent travel companion, and—as my sisters and I suspect but prefer not to think about—her occasional paramour, Eduardo.
