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I tug my brow down. “Look, lady…”
The sound of her laugh warms my socks off. She doesn’t smile or let down nearly enough.
Shoot. I think I smell trouble.
A second bite of the double-decker burger sends a giant bubble of special sauce surging down my lip. I contort my chin as if that will somehow prevent the impending disaster.
Burger, steering wheel, an approaching turn. I incline toward my passenger, who jams a handful of napkins at me.
“Hep. I an’t…” I garble. “An ou ust…”
She hesitates, only dashing away the blob sliding down my chin at the last instant. Gluing my eyes to the intersection, I angle my face for her to get the rest of the mess, lips, cheeks and all. Her fingers brush my jaw, and the meaty mush in my mouth nearly slides down the wrong pipe.
Crisis averted, I swallow. Like a thief, Hollie scoops the burger from my hands. “I’ll take that.”
I make a lame reach. “Hey, I’m hungry.”
She bats me away. “No, you’re driving. One thing at a time, mister.”
I feel like…like an old married couple on a road trip, the nagging wife—
No, not nagging. Making sense and taking care. Of me.
I’m not a caretaker type, nor do I need to be doted on or looked after. Except…it’s kinda nice not being a one-man show for once.
Crud.
My hands tighten on the wheel. “If I can’t eat and drive, then you have to eat your burger when we get home.”
Home?
We?
Double crud.
She puts her back to the door and stares. “What sort of deal is that?”
Excellent question. Since when do I care what Hollie eats?
Since I’ve witnessed how she sacrifices for others, for her generally unappreciative son in particular. The car, the bedroom. I know money is tight, and it makes me wonder how many meals she’s foregone so the kid can fill his stomach.
I’m thinking about Hollie Carpenter way too much lately.
“Trash it if you want”. Makes no difference to me.”
Uncomfortable silence finalizes the enjoyable interlude. My fault, yes. Most problems in my life are.
Hollie
The hamburger isn’t as greasy as it could be, and once I take the first bite, I realize how hungry I am.
John scores a point for anticipating my need. I do appreciate the effort, but he’s doing too much for me.
Our eyes meet over the kitchen table where we unwrapped our meals and set them on plates. He’s been grumpy ever since I rejected the food. Even now that I’m eating, he’s quiet and the fun part of the evening is over. Surely I didn’t hurt his feelings? “Thank you for dinner.”
I squirm under his sharp eyes. The longer I know him, the harder he is to read. He swipes a paper napkin across his mouth and my mind replays the moment I rescued his sweater from a gooey, gloppy mess.
The feel of his jaw, rough with the stubble of a full day.
