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There were things I used to dream about. Having a wife, having a house, having a family—things that seemed more likely to be a forever fantasy than to ever become my reality, especially when I’d spent such a sizable chunk of my life locked up. Everything behind those concrete walls seemed far-fetched and impossible, but, man, I would dream, and I’d wonder what kind of husband I would be. What kind of dad.
I liked to imagine I’d be like Grampa—full of unconditional love and never-ending devotion for the people in his life. He never had a lot of money to express that love and devotion though, so he showed me in other ways. Taking me fishing. Reading me stories before bed. Making me a good, filling breakfast every chance he had. Those were the things I loved about him, and those were the things I missed the most.
And that was what I thought about now, the morning after Ray and I’d had sex for the first time, as I made her a big breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, and home fries. The pans on the stove sizzled, adding an extra note to the music playing from the speaker wirelessly connected to her phone, and I remembered mornings just like this from my youth. Except in those memories, it was Grampa doing the cooking, wearing nothing but his pajama pants on a warm spring day, while Gramma sat at the table, watching him with undying adoration and singing along to the songs she played.
“It’s nice to be waited on for once,” Ray commented, her chin propped up in the palm of her hand.
Elvis’s “Can’t Help Falling in Love” began to play as I glanced over my shoulder.
“Well, get used to it,” I replied with a grin.
“Oh, I will. Especially if you insist on doing it shirtless. That’s even more appreciated.”
I turned off the stove; loaded our plates with fresh, hot food; and brought them to the table. Ray couldn’t have looked happier at the sight of a meal she hadn’t had to cook, and I made a silent vow to cook for her more often. Or, hell, all thetime, ifshe’d let me.
Steam billowed from both our plates, the food too hot to eat, and with Elvis encouraging me to do something else I remembered Grampa doing with Gramma, I scooped Ray’s hand in mine and pulled her from the table.
Then, we danced. And I knew I wasn’t good at it—I’d never danced with a girl before, unless you counted Gramma—but that didn’t matter when she smiled at me and I sang those infamous words to her, and we were both so wrapped up in the moment that neither of us heard the front door opening.
“Hey, honey, we’re—”
“Hey, Mom! I’m—”
Two voices began to speak at once, and both stopped abruptly at the sight of Ray and me dancing in her kitchen. She spun away from me quickly, startled by the intrusion, then clapped her hands to her chest and laughed, beside herself.
“Oh my God, you guys scared me!” she exclaimed as Noah and Ray’s mother walked warily toward us.
Noah’s eyes were on me the whole time. A look of betrayal heavy in his darkened gaze.
“What are you guys doing?” he asked accusingly, putting his hands on the back of Ray’schairand eyeing the plates of food.
“We were actually about to sit down and eat,” his mom replied, acting like the moment wasn’t heavy with suspicion.
I cleared my throat, suddenly self-conscious of not having a shirt on. It wasn’t like Noah hadn’t seen me shirtless before—I had no shame, and it was my preference when doing work on the house or yard—but right now, in this setting … I might as well have been naked.
“Would you guys like any? There’s some left on the stove,” I said, gesturing toward the pans.
“I’d love some. It smells great in here,” Ray’s mom said with a smile that was growing more aware by the second. “But first, Ray, can I talk to you for a minute?”
The tone of her voice said this was a conversation meant to be had alone, and with the quickly shot glances in my direction, I had a feeling I knew what—or who—it would be about.
Ray threw an apologetic look in my direction before ushering her mother down the hall to the bedroom I had just spent the night in. But the thing about our houses—hers and mine—was, they weren’t very big, and the soundproofing wasn’t the most efficient. And although she and her mother whispered, in the quiet enveloping the rest of the house, I could easily make out bits and pieces of their hushed conversation.
“… sure … this?”
“… don’t … worry … good person.”
“I … know … you’re right … but … prison … past.”
I rolled my lips between my teeth, staring at the plates of food growing colder by the second on the table. Then, I noticed Noah with his hands still clamped on the back of the chair. The kid wasn’t a toddler, nor was he an idiot. He knew what was going on, and if I was going to stay in his good graces—and, dammit, I wanted to—I had to smooth things over. Make sure he was okay. Get his blessing or some shit.
“Hey.”
He hardly lifted his gaze to mine. “What?” The bite in his tone nearly made me flinch.
“I think they’re talking about me,” I whispered, keeping my voice low.
Noah barely nodded. “Yeah.”
