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His house is nothing like I expected. There’s a leather couch and flatscreen TV, sure, but there’s also throw pillows and rugs. There are a few pictures on the mantle of Xavier, Townes, and a few other soldiers.
“Come on, I’ll show you around.”
I take off my coat, and he tosses it over an armchair as we head down the hallway. He opens the first door, and I peek in, spotting an office.
“This is where I work. Right down here is a bathroom and then the kitchen.”
He leads me into a large kitchen that looks like a chef’s dream. There’s a fancy looking oven and stone, marble countertops, and dark wood cabinets. Everything is gleaming and looks brand new, and I wonder how much time he spends in the kitchen.
“What are you making for us tonight?” I ask him as he heads over to the shiny fridge.
“I thought that we could have spaghetti.”
“Sounds good. Can I help with anything?”
“No, I’ve got it. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Sure.”
“Wine? Water?”
“Wine, please.”
He nods and grabs a bottle of white wine.
“Is this alright?”
“I don’t know much about wine, but I’m sure it will be good.”
He pours us each a glass and I take a sip, savoring the sweet taste. Townes moves around the kitchen, filling a pot with water and turning on the stove. He grabs a box of spaghetti and a jar of sauce. I watch as he pulls a loaf of garlic bread out of the freezer and opens that.
“Do you cook often?” I ask him, and he nods.
“Yeah. I had to learn how to at a young age if I wanted to eat,” he tells me, and I nod.
“I wish that I was better at it. My mom, she had a lot of… mental health problems,” I hedge. “She didn’t like me touching things in our house. If I did, we’d have to wash them three times.”
“Why three times?” He asks with a frown, and I shrug.
“She has undiagnosed OCD. She did a lot of things three times. She was also a huge germaphobe and was terrified of the outside world. I had to go to school and then straight home. When I got home, I’d shower and change my clothes. Then we’d clean.”
“Sounds hard,” he says softly, and I nod.
“It was. It was stifling and so restrictive.”
“I’m sorry, Mira.”
“I tried to get her help,” I tell him, and he looks at me with sad eyes. “But she didn’t want it. Said that there was nothing wrong with her.”
“Maybe she’ll realize she’s wrong one day,” he offers, and I give him a sad smile.
“I doubt it.”
We’re silent for a moment as the water starts to boil behind him.
“My parents were drug addicts. I tried to get them help too, but it never worked. In order to get better, they’d have to want that, and they never did.”
“I’m so sorry, Townes.”
