“Excuse me. Your kitchen?”
“Since I’m the only one cooking, it’s mine.” I stick my tongue out and he grins, eyes flickering with heat. “Speaking of which, have you been craving anything else recently?”
He’s only ever asked what I don’t want to eat, never what I’m craving. Truth is, I want anything Patrick makes. He’s such a good cook and every single day is something new.
“Spicy food, obviously. Nothing else really. You’re feeding us very well, Trick.”
“There’s gotta be something I haven’t done yet.”
“I mean…I love French Toast, but if even a taste of egg hits my tongue, I will explode.”
He chuckles and eats another momo, this time without the sauce. “Keep going, Lo. Gimme a challenge.”
“Oooh, how about momos or dumplings. Sushi!”
“No sushi. I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to eat raw fish.”
I pout. “Fine. Then homemade dumplings?”
He examines the remaining few momos and shrugs. “I’m sure I could make it happen.”
Rubbing my lips together to hide my smile fails because I’m so fascinated by this man. He’s not just a handsome big Viking; he’s a guy who cares a lot about everyone else. I wonder how many other men are going out of their way to cook for their partners after discovering he accidentally knocked her up. We’re not partners, remember? Roommates.
“How are you still single, Trick?”
The question catches us both by surprise and he freezes with the momo halfway up to his mouth. I pick at the label on my goli soda bottle as he eats the final piece. Is it totally ridiculous to assume I’m the reason? I don’t want that to be the truth. Then it means he spent the last twenty years waiting for me and it’s too much for one person to handle.
“Actually, I don’t want to know.”
He chuckles. “I have a type. And everyone I’ve met along the way has one or two things I like. Not everything.” Then his eyes meet mine and my insides melt into a puddle.
Sorry, baby, your father tried to ruin me while I was fully clothed.
I clear my throat, aware of the blush covering every inch of my body. “But you did date, right?”
“Here and there, sure. Nothing serious.” I nod and finish my drink, then he adds, “Partly because most people don’t know how to have a serious conversation about mental health.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve lived with high functioning depression for a good portion of my adult life. It’s…debilitating in relationships.”
My brain puts high functioning depression at the top of my list of things to research tomorrow. “Only when it’s with the wrong people.”
“Haven’t met the right one yet,” he says softly and my heart plummets.
He mumbles something about getting more napkins and walks to the truck. I watch him go, wondering how long he’s lived with his depression. While it’s not a competition, my trauma doesn’t seem as bad as his. I chew on the inside of my cheek as he talks to the guys in the truck. Would he want to tell me more about his depression? Would he lean on me when something happens? I wonder if he’ll want to show me his scars and accept mine the way they are. Tears prick the corner of my eyes when he returns, dazzling smile in place.
“Anything else you wanna do?”
I shrug. “How do you feel about the Fruit Shop?”
“Sure.”
He loops the knapsack over his shoulder and takes my hand, linking our fingers. We walk down the busy street, checking out the other trucks. When we reach the shop, he opens the door and nudges me inside. Known as the Fruit Shop on Greams Road?4, it’s a juice and milkshake joint that’s been around for years. The menu has never changed, the tables are always sticky and likely not entirely hygienic. As long as I don’t watch them make my drink, I manage fine.
We place our order and sit in comfortable silence to watch the traffic go by. A lot of heavy stuff has come up today and I have tons of questions. I want to dig a little deeper under his skin to get to the bottom of this version of Patrick Joseph.
Not yet, though.
