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“Well, I’m moonlighting as a delivery boy tonight. A little roleplay if you will. But I will give this money and the tip to the real delivery guy.” I smirk, and she looks down and the remaining bag at my feet.
“My food,” I explain awkwardly.
She moves back, motioning with her head for me to come in, and I hesitate. I don’t know why, but I look around outside, as if anyone I know in this neighborhood can see me at ten at night.
“Come on, I won’t murder you,” she says.
“Well, that’s all the reassurance I required,” I joke, moving inside and thanking God inwardly when she seals the breeze outside by closing the front door.
“I usually eat on the couch, but seeing that I’m not eating alone tonight…”
“We can still eat on the couch. Whatever your routine is, is fine with me. I’m interrupting your night, after all,” I say, moving toward the couch and plopping my food bag on the coffee table so that I can remove my gloves, scarf, and jacket.
Carina takes them from me, placing them on the table by the door. “Trust me, they’ll be safer away from all the cat hair.”
I look around, eyeing three cats huddled on the top of a cat tree that sits inside the kitchen archway.
“A cat person, hmm?” I ask, sitting and tearing into my bag.
“Yeah. I mean, I’m not at crazy-cat-lady status or anything, but I love them.”
“Well, there’s still time,” I tell her, ripping into my fork’s protective covering with my teeth and spitting the plastic from my mouth into my bag like the barbarian I am.
“Time?” she asks, watching my every move like a lynx on the hunt.
“To become a crazy cat lady? Like full-blown.”
She nods lightly, moving to the far end of the couch—as far away from me as she can get—plopping down and opening her food.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” I start.
Shit. I hadn’t meant to offend her or infer that collecting cats is the only thing she has to look forward to in her future. I’d wanted to make playful banter with her.
“I didn’t take it that way.” She smiles, opening her chopsticks. She’s obviously more experienced than I am.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt. “About earlier today. I forget you come from…home. I’m not used to people knowing about that night.”
I look down.
“I know nothing. I know what everyone else does,” she says.
Which isn’t much. Father made sure of it. Can’t have your favored son stained in such a way, can you?
“It’s not something I like to talk about. Shit, I don’t even like to think about it,” I admit.
“I can imagine. I mean, I don’t know what happened, of course. But I can see how it would be hard to talk about.”
Her eyes have drifted off, far away from where we sit in her living room. For someone who doesn’t know much about the fire, she looks awfully haunted.
Stop trying to make something out of nothing.
My brain’s right. I’m blowing this situation out of proportion. It’s because I’m not used to having people who know, other than Conner. No, all the people who know are dead, buried along with all the secrets my father paid to be six feet under with them.
“Want to watch a movie?” she asks, snapping back to reality.
“Sure, why not. What do you want to watch?” I ask.
“There’s a new Stephen King on Netflix,” she says.
