He brushes his thumbs over my cheeks, inspecting my face with both his hands and his eyes. “Are you all right?”
“You already asked her—oof.”
“Let him have his hero moment, dumbarse.”
His eyes pinch shut, but the teeniest of lines crinkle in the corners, and his lips turn up the smallest bit too.
“I knew you’d save me,” I whisper.
His eyes open again, andgod, they’re so blue.
Like the wide-open sky.
All the space in the world.
“I’m cooking for you tonight,” he informs me.
And when we get back to his house—manor? estate?—that’s exactly what he does.
He mans the grill himself, making bratwurst and hamburgers and grilled chicken.
Insisting I do nothing more than sit outside in a chair by the grill, drinking a root beer and sampling the chips and raw veggies that he arranges neatly in bowls and on platters for sides.
And every time he looks at me?—
Something’s changed.
Something earth shatteringly monumental.
We make small talk, trading stories about his boys and my brothers, then stories of our own childhood mischief. On the surface, it’s light.
But not when he looks at me.
It’s like he’s verifying I’m still here, and holding his breath for fear I’ll disappear behind a door again, and also holding himself back from whatever it is that has his eyes so very, very serious, even when he’s smiling and joking with his boys or the security agents who occasionally check on us while we’re eating.
The boys volunteer to clean up after dinner, which has Simon smiling again. “You want to have video game time.”
“We wouldn’t turn it down,” Charlie says while he gathers plates.
“Not if you’re offering,” Eddie agrees as he grabs the platter of leftover vegetables.
“Is that yours, or did it come with the house?” I ask Simon as I spot the flowery pattern, which is oddly familiar.
“Everything came with the house. Made moving quite easy. Though I did replace the mattresses.”
“I think Mrs. Young used that dish to serve food at her husband’s wake here.”
“We’re eating off funeral dishes?” Charlie whispers.
“Epic,” Eddie says.
He and Charlie dash for the back door with their arms loaded down. “Maybe we can make more friends if they know we have dead people’s stuff,” Charlie says.
Simon swipes a hand over his face, his smile a little more pained now.
“Do they need more friends?” I ask him.
“They’ve made a few in that program you recommended, but everyone could always use one more friend.” He looks down at the table, still littered with chip bowls and a single leftover bratwurst and some cups and utensils, then lifts his gaze to me again.
