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Tony’s BBQ had a line out the door. We waited in it, neither saying a word. When it came time to order, I tried to pay but Shiloh waved me off.
“It was my idea.”
“Shiloh…”
“Your money’s no good here, Wentz. I got this. I insist.”
I scowled. “I’ll get the next one.”
“The next one?”
Shit.
We walked back to her place, and Bibi—moving like a sighted person—set the table and dumped a pile of napkins in the center.
“If it’s Tony’s, we’ll need every single one,” she said, beaming in my direction.
I was going to be eating dinner with them…at their table. Like a normal person. But now that I was about to have a taste of normal, I didn’t know what to do. I was going to fuck it up. Say or do something and embarrass the shit out of myself.
“I could just take mine out back and keep working,” I said and turned to Shiloh. “Maybe I could take a look at your History notes later.”
Shiloh glared. “What?”
“Absolutely not,” Bibi said. “Come. Sit.”
There was no getting out of it. I took a seat opposite Shiloh while Bibi sat at the head of the table. The barbeque was better than anything I’d eaten in a long time, the sauce spicy and sweet.
Like the girl sitting across from me.
Bibi asked me harmless questions and made small talk until I no longer felt like an intruder. It snuck up on me, that feeling of belonging. Mostly because I didn’t recognize it. Shiloh and her grandmother teased each other, finishing each other’s sentences, and sharing their inside jokes.
Bibi was in the middle of telling me how five-year-old Shiloh once caught a tadpole in the pond up the road and had plans to raise it in the toilet, when a hard pounding on the door jolted all of us. The cats darted off the couch and disappeared down the hall.
The warm feeling of belonging evaporated, and for an instant, I had the crazy thought that I’d brought my own bloody past right to the Barrera’s doorstep.
Mitch Dowd…
“Sakes alive,” Bibi said, her hand on her throat. “Who could that be?”
The pounding came again, and I got up and strode to the door. I threw it open to a bored-looking delivery guy in a brown uniform, a package in his hand.
“I need a signature,” he said. “Mrs. Bibi Barrera.”
“You gotta pound the door like that?”
“Hey, man, this is my last delivery of the night.” He glanced up to see me looming over him and took a step back. “You don’t look like a Mrs. Barrera.”
“I’m here,” Bibi said, pushing me gently aside. “Thank you, Ronan, I got this.”
I went back to the table, grabbed my denim jacket and threw it on. “Thanks for dinner.”
Shiloh stood up. “You’re leaving? What about the History notes? The paper is due in a week.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“But—”
“I don’t need your help, Shiloh,” I said and gestured at the remnants of dinner. “I don’t need…any of this.”
