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Taavi’s dark eyebrows rose, although I didn’t know him well enough to be able to read his expression. “It was impressive to me,” he said softly.
I stuck another forkful of omelet into my stupid mouth that I apparently couldn’t control and took a few chews before I answered this time. “It’s my job,” I replied lamely.
There couldn’t possibly be a way for me to be any more fucking awkward.
Taavi fell silent, and I couldn’t help but think it was because I’d gone and—as usual—stuck my foot in it.
I sighed. “I’m bad at people,” I told him. “Sorry.”
I couldn’t bring myself to actually look at him.
“No need to apologize,” he murmured, which just made me feel even more like shit.
Because I’m an asshole.
Somehow, I managed not to be a complete dick as we finished up breakfast. Taavi came into the kitchen while I did the dishes—like he always did—although now that he had opposable thumbs, he seemed to think I would actually let him help.
I didn’t.
I tried to shoo him out of the kitchen, but he wasn’t having that, either.
So we arrived at the age-old compromise acted out in every kitchen on the planet, including my mom’s every time I go home.
I did the dishes, and he dried.
And it felt weird as fuck and like the most natural goddamn thing in the world.
* * *
I tried very hard notto be judgmental as I stood in the tiny ‘efficiency’ apartment the shelter had lined up for Taavi. As he’d explained to me on the way over, they’d been able to get him this shithole—my description, not his—because he had a little bit of money saved up still to cover a month’s rent. And the shelter had offered him a job doing maintenance and janitorial work at Hands and Paws, so he’d be able to keep affording it.
He was excited.
I was the one being a classist asshole, which was deeply ironic given the fact that I’m a fucking cop, not a goddamn CEO, and my whole family going back as many generations as could be captured in photographs and daguerreotypes had been either blue-collar workers or farmers.
At least the apartment was clean, even if it did need a fresh coat of paint, new appliances, and probably a whole new tile-job in the bathroom.
I was totally a judgmental fuck.
But at least I managed to keep it to myself.
They’d given him the most basic of basics—sheets, a cheap but not horrible blanket, some cheap dishes that had clearly been purchased from a thrift store, tiny sample size shampoo and toothpaste—and not much else.
“It’s fine, Hart. More than fine,” he said to me as I scowled at the tiny sample dishsoap next to a roll of budget paper towels beside the sink.
“Mom crochets more dishcloths than I know what to do with,” I replied. “I’ll bring you some.”
“Hart, you’ve done more than enough for me—”
“And you’ll be doing me a favor by letting me offload some damn dishcloths,” I retorted. “She’s just going to send me more, anyway. It’ll make her happy.”
He gave me a look that said he thought I was full of shit.
And I hadn’t even mentioned the hot pads or dishtowels that she sewed little cutout designs onto. Which he was also getting, because I really do have like ten of each, and I maybe work my way through a couple dishcloths a year. Every year, I drop them off at the Arc-Arcanid Youth Center, keeping three of each and give away the rest of the batch she gave me every Christmas.
I also had every intention of finding some other “extra” things to go with them—usable stuff. Soap. Multipurpose cleaner. Fucking BandAids. The things nobody thinks of that you suddenly find yourself needing.
“Seriously, Taavi. My mom goes overboard. I donate a bunch of them every year anyway.” I still had several from the past couple years in the rotation, so he’d get the ones I’d kept for myself last Christmas. They were still practically new.
