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I’m pleased that he really does seem to be feeling better.
“Well, there are some leftovers in the fridge if you want them,” I offer. “I thought Rae felt up to eating biscuits-and-gravy casserole last night, but she decided on chicken noodle soup again. I’m the only one who’s had any of it.”
“What is it?” he asks, interested. “Just a bunch of biscuits and sausage gravy?”
“Yeah, in one of those glass dishes you put lasagna in. If you don’t think it sounds good, that’s okay.”
He quickly shakes his head. “No, it sounds awesome. You really don’t mind?”
“Not at all.” I get to my feet.
He does, too. “Do you need me to help with anything?”
“You can come tell me how much food you want.”
“Well, I’ll be good at that.”
I end up warming a heaping plateful for him, which is fine by me. I ate this earlier for dinner as well as last night, and I’m relieved to know a bunch of it won’t be sitting in the fridge another day.
I’m also relieved that he really seems to like it once he’s digging in at the kitchen table.
After he swallows his third biscuit, he points at the plate with his fork and tells me, “This is fucking perfect. I can’t thank you enough.”
“I’m glad you’re happy with it.”
He gives me a long, intent look before he turns his attention to loading up a new bite. “You’ve made me feel better. A lot better. I appreciate it more than you know.”
Although his gaze is on his food, I nod. “Well, you’re welcome. Need some water?”
“Sure.”
I fix us both a glass and decide to sit down at the table with him.
He thanks me again and then asks how Rae is doing. I fill him in on her getting sick earlier this week and going to see the doctor this morning.
“Poor kid,” he says. “I’m glad you think she might be getting better.”
“Me, too. She’s so unlike her usual self when she gets sick. No goofiness or being talkative.”
“Yeah, when I saw you guys in Wal-Mart, I noticed she was weirdly out of commission.”
He goes quiet, but I can tell there’s something he wants to add, so I wait for it.
Shortly, he looks up from his food.
“Hey,” he says almost tentatively, “I’m sorry for my part in you getting upset the other day.”
I tap a corner of my mouth with a knuckle as I let that soak in.
It doesn’t take me long to decide how I feel about it.
“Thank you, but you didn’t do anything wrong.” I briefly consider not saying the next part, but I push on. “It was me. I didn’t—I didn’t do anythingwrong, but…” I frown, “…I’m the one with the…problem.”
With a frown of his own, he regards me kind of sadly.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I say again. “You were just being yourself, all cheerful and everything.”
“Okay,” he replies, “but I don’t think you have aproblem….”
