“I got to feed you first before we can call it a date,” he shot back. “You hungry?”
“I am, but I want to help! I’ll eat later. Put me to work!” Stassi was so excited. The energy in the room was infectious. She just wanted to contribute to it.
“You know how to make pancakes?” he asked.
“Boy, I’m the pancake queen,” she bragged.
“Okay, well, I’ma put you at the pancake station with me,” he said. “Come on. I’ll get you an apron and show you where you can put your stuff.”
She followed him to the kitchen, and they washed their hands before he slipped a plastic apron over her head.
She couldn’t stop smiling.
“Never saw anybody this excited to make a couple hundred pancakes,” Grayson snickered.
“I’ve never seen a man this intuitively conscious of the needs of children that don’t belong to him. That makes me proud. Like, this is amazing,” she said. “Good job, Black man.”
He blushed, and Stassi did too, just out of reaction to his humility.
“Thank you,” he said. He led the way to the station, and Stassi got to work. The first little girl in line was a little snaggletooth, brown skin girl with braids and barrettes. She was so intrinsically Black that Stassi fell in love instantly.
“Mr. Grayson is this your girlfriend?” the little girl asked.
Grayson flipped one of the pancakes on his griddle and then put it on the little girl’s plate. “She’s a girl and she’s a friend. Does that count?”
Stassi laughed as the little girl shook her head. “That’s not the same thingggg.”
They spent the entire morning engrossed in these kids. Stassi served pancakes, wiped down tables, tied shoes, played kickball the best she could because she had worn heels, and helped with homework. She had been so tuned in to the event that she forgot to fix herself a plate. It was such a good time that she hated to see the morning come to an end, but when the last kid left the school, it was time to say goodbye.
“This was the most fun I’ve had in a long time,” she said. “Thank you for inviting me.”
“Thank you for not running for the door as soon as you got here,” he replied.
“If this is what a date is like with you, I’m going to have to get creative when it’s my turn to plan,” she said. She felt awkward as soon as she said it.
Oh, you desperate-looking-ass bitch,she thought. She hated to look thirsty or to be one of those girls trying too hard too fast, forcing a square into a round hole.
“I’m not that difficult to please,” he answered. “I live out the station, and my DoorDash bill is crazy, so a good home-cooked meal would do it for me.”
“I most definitely can accommodate that,” she replied. Stassi felt like her cheeks would fall off, she was smiling so hard. Grayson was genuinely nice, and not just to her. She noticed how he treated others around him. The kids were a given. They loved him. His colleagues loved him and looked up to him. She could tell just from their interactions, but also, he was kind to the little people in the room. The people most wouldn’t even acknowledge. The janitor, whom he spent ten minutes with just inquiring about his family and his day. The secretary, who unlocked the building each Saturday, who he made it a point to take a plate. His spirit was soothing. Not to mention, the selfless job of being a firefighter. She didn’t mind feeding a man like that.
“Just let me know when,” he said jokingly.
“How about tonight?” she asked.
She could see his surprise. She shocked herself at how easily he had earned an invite to her crib. They walked toward the door, and he held it open for her.
“Just let me know what you’d like,” she offered.Oh, bitch, you really like him,she thought. Most men would get shrimp alfredo, salad, and breadsticks because it was quick, good, and one of her favorites. She was giving Grayson options.
“I get to pick my poison, huh?” he asked.
“Unt uh, not you think I’m gon’ poison you,” she laughed. “I don’t get to cook often, but I’m actually kind of good at it. I know my way around a kitchen. You say you don’t get home-cooked meals often, so make it count. What would you like? If you could choose any meal to eat tonight, what would it be?”
He was digging the conversation. He was already rubbing his stomach. “Not going to lie. I haven’t had an old-school pot roast in years. With the gravy and the carrots and some mac and cheese, cabbage. A little cornbread on the side.”
She laughed.
“I can do that,” she said. He went into his back pocket and pulled out a leather wallet. The logo told her it was Tom Ford.
