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“You do,” I agreed. “But is this all you wanted? No women? Kids?”
“Always wanted a woman and kids. Then I got my head a little fucked in the military, was sure it was never in the cards for me. Then work became everything.”
“Your head isn’t fucked,” I told him, watching as a smile positively split his face, making the edges of his eyes crinkle. “What?” I asked, feeling my cheeks heat even though I didn’t know what I had said that was so amusing to him.
“That’s the first time you said Fucked in front of me,” he told me. “I didn’t think it was in your vocabulary.”
“In general, it isn’t,” I told him. “Appearances and all that. I was allowed a hell or damn every now and again, but anything worse was simply unbecoming.” That was the word Bertram liked to use about me. Whenever he found something about me that he didn’t like, he brought my attention to it and told me how unbecoming it was for a woman in my position in life.
The list of unbecoming things included cursing, braids in my hair, any jewelry that cost less than five-hundred-dollars, short hemlines, low-cut bodices, a tan, any heels that weren’t black or nude, my old accent, my tendency to call things great or cool or interesting, eyeliner, red lipstick, nails that were anything other than neutral, cutting my food with the knife in my right hand, the way I used to cross my legs at the knee.
Oh, the list was endless.
I could hardly even remember them all.
“Well, fuck appearances,” he said, still grinning, his brow raising. Like he was daring me to say it again.
Now that my attention was on it, I felt awkward, unpracticed at the word. When it came out it was high-pitched and squeaky, but I managed. I accepted the dare.
“Fuck appearances,” I told him, feeling my lips twitch up as well.
“That’a girl,” he said, clinking his mug to mine. “So, are you hungry?” he asked. And I was. I so, so was. Especially if he was cooking.
“So long as whatever you make is half as good as that oatmeal.”
“The oatmeal?” he asked, snorting. “That hardly even counts as cooking. I’ll pull some meat out of the freezer and see if anything fresh is still workable. The potatoes and carrots at least should be. It won’t be fine dining, but you hate fine dining anyway.”
“I don’t hate…”
“Sweetheart, you claimed a fast food chicken sandwich was one of the best meals you’ve had in years. You hate fine dining,” he told me, but his eyes were dancing. Like he found that quality endearing.
“Can I help?” I asked, taking a sip of the tea.
“Do you want to help?”
“Yes.”
“Then yes.”
And, with Smith, it really was that simple. If I wanted to do something, he was fine with that. If I didn’t want to, that was just as fine. It was such a strange, foreign, but wholly welcome realization. That no matter what I liked or didn’t, no matter what I desired, or didn’t, he was okay with it.
Acceptance.
It was something I had hardly ever gotten to know in my life. Not even from the people who were supposed to be closest to me. And here was this man, this man who – for all intents and purposes – I didn’t know that well. And he was okay with me. Just as I was. Newfound belly pudge and unrefined palate and all.
There was no shaking the light, floaty feeling in my heart as I shaved carrots, as I chopped them into pieces. He didn’t even balk at me when they came out uneven, just scooped them into a waiting pan he had already filled with potatoes, onions, garlic, and oil.
“It’s gonna be a carby dinner,” he told me after tossing out the greens that had wilted in the fridge in his absence.
“I like carbs.”
“Good.”
With that, he took the pork chops out of the bowl of warm water where they’d been defrosting, mixed about half a dozen spices onto them, threw them in the broiler, and set to making a second side of macaroni and cheese. From the box. Like I had grown up on. Not even with those packets of liquid cheese. Oh, no. It was the powdered kind. With the milk and butter. Guaranteed to make my pants just a bit tighter.
But as we sat down to eat, I couldn’t have cared less.
Everything was perfect and I didn’t even hesitate in saying yes when he offered me seconds.
“So, can I fire Lydia and have you come cook for me?” I asked, immediately worried I said something wrong when his eyes went a bit dark for a moment.
But he shook it off, gave me a small hint of a smile. “Anytime you want me to cook for you, Jenny, you let me know.”
