Holt’s sarcastic. But not in a mean way. He’s funny.
He told me about his neighbors having bubble races yesterday.
Wait.
That’s not right.
Why are his neighbors floating on bubbles and speaking Spanish and riding into the ship’s wine cellar?
Oh.
Right.
Because I’m dreaming.
This chair is damn comfortable.
I make the executive decision to let myself dream for just five minutes.
And at the end of those five minutes, I open my eyes and realize it’s dark outside.
It shouldn’t be this dark this early. Not halfway through summer.
Holt’s at the door.
I stretch, and I realize I’ve slept harder than I thought. There’s a light blanket covering me, and the noise at my feet is Jessica.
She’s breathing heavy like she sometimes does. But she’s not snorting at Holt, who’s closing the front door now, plastic takeout bags dangling from his fingers as he uses his crutches to pivot and face me.
“You awake, or are your eyes just open?” he asks.
“I didn’t make dinner,” I blurt. “It’s your birthday.”
“Had a birthday dinner in Spain last week,” he replies. “And fried chicken sounded good. Got mashed potatoes andfries and potato casserole and tater tots and rosemary potatoes too. Wasn’t sure which potato you’d be in the mood for.”
He covered me with a blanket.
He took care of the dog.
He ordered us dinner.
And he ordered me potatoes.
Every kind of potato.
My eyes get hot.
I haven’t even asked him what position he plays on his lacrosse team, and he’s ordering me potatoes.
“Who has that many potatoes?”
“Strip mall not far from here. Deli and a diner next to each other. One has the best sweet tea. The other has the best fried chicken. I’m not telling which. You hungry? I can put it in the fridge if not.”
My belly grumbles.
But not like it has been.
This is true, legitimate, actual hunger pangs.
