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Abag of frozen veggies is leaving a watermark on my counter while I cook up this chicken on the stovetop.
All while Meredith paces. She peers over my left shoulder and then my right. She’s asked to help no less than eight times—though I have nothing for her to do. But the next time she peeks over my right shoulder, her cheek brushes my arm and I find something for the girl to do.
“Do you want to set the table?”
“Yes. I’m happy to help.”
I chuckle under my breath. “I never would have guessed.”
I mix and flip and sauté the food in my skillet, adding the veggies and letting them steam and cook into the juices of the meat. I’ve got rice in a rice cooker that should be ready soon. Dinner for two—a meal meant for my mother and myself.
Only now it’s for me.And Meredith.
Meredith and me.
It’s fine. We’re working together on a task and everyone needs to eat. It’sfine.
Jude told me once that when Coco says “fine” too many times, he knows thatit—whatever it is—is absolutely not fine. That makes no sense. If something isn’t fine, then don’t say it is. So, why do I keep using that word now—even in my head? Did I get this from hanging out with her too much? Or is it hereditary?
Meredith doesn’t ask where the plates, forks, and cups are. Nope, she just opens every single cupboard in the kitchen until she finds what she needs. I don’t mind—it’s not like I’m hiding anything in this kitchen, and she’s no longer the little bird over my shoulder, chirping in my ear.
She sets two plates and forks on the table and fills two glasses with water.
I bring over my one-stop shop, my skillet with chicken stir fry, and spread a healthy portion of rice, veggies, and meat onto each plate.
“This is like a whole entire amazing meal.”
I laugh. It’s not as impressive as Meredith’s admiring tone makes it sound. “It’s all right.”
“No really. I just learned that there’s a difference between a tablespoon and a teaspoon and here you are making magical meals without a box involved.”
“You didn’t know the difference between—” I sigh. See—she’s a kid.
“I was never been allowed to cook before. My dad was always afraid I’d get cut or burned.”
“Huh. And you just now moved out?”
“Yeah. Well, a few months ago. Things… changed.”
That’s a bit cryptic. “Where’s your dad now?”
She blows out a sigh. “Therapy.” She sets a hand on either side of her plate and stares down at her meal with that silly look of awe.
I’m honestly afraid to ask more. I thought maybe she’d say something like retired or in Arizona. But therapy? Like it’s a city on the map.
“So,” she says, scooping up a bite, but letting the food hover just inches from her mouth. “Who’s Laura?”
I choke. I breathe in my giant bite of stir fry, then choke down the entire bite. Meredith smacks her small hand to my back while I cough and sputter. “You heard that?”
“Every bit.” She grins. “So, what did you decide? Date or not a date?”
I’m still choking—and I’m not sure what to say to that, so I break away from her eye contact and cough until the rest of my food decides to make its way down, allowing me to breathe like a normal human being again.
“I’m notthatyoung, you know?” She scoops another bite onto her fork. “My uncle was nine years older than my aunt. It was never a big deal for them.”
I figure this is a safe topic. “You said your uncle is sick or lonely or—.”
“He’s diabetic. He just hasn’t eaten right since my Aunt Cindy passed away.” Her eyes widen. “Not that I’m much help in that department. But when Dad decided to get help, I decided to leave. I needed somewhere to go.”
