“I’m sure they wouldn’t. But if that’s what you’re craving, there’s a gas station a few blocks away.” I’m already shrugging my coat on. “Anything else?”
“You don’t have to?—”
“Hazel.”
“Extra ranch, please. And maybe a corndog?”
“On it. What else?” I press when she shuffles her feet. “Come on, Hazel. Tell me whatever you’re craving and I’ll find it for you.”
“Rambutan, okay? It’s this exotic fruit from Southeast Asia with a red, furry shell that you peel to get to the translucent flesh. I had them once in Malaysia on a trip with my mother, and for some reason I’ve craved them for weeks.”
That makes me chuckle. “Sorry to burst your bubble, but I don’t think I’ll find that at a service station.”
“You won’t,” she says sadly. “I’ve called every Asian supermarket and grocery store in the state and nobody has them. But the jojos sound great, and the corndog—” She stops as her stomach growls again. “I’m really, really craving those.”
“That I can do.”
“I swear I normally don’t eat so much fried junk.”
“You mentioned that.” I’m out the door before she can outline her doctor-approved prenatal menu. What is it with her and needing to follow the rules? I’ve watched her at Weirdoughs, hunched over a plate of those tiny, fancy pastries. She always looks guilty, like someone might swoop in and snatch them, smacking her hand like she touched something dirty.
My walk to the gas station winds through a few sketchy blocks. Two guys in dingy coats dig through a dumpster while a woman in torn yellow rain pants pushes a shopping cart missing a wheel.
Sometimes I wonder if that’s where my dad ended up. Not homeless in Salem, though maybe that’s possible. Living like that could keep a guy from contacting his kids. Part of me wants to believe that’s what happened.
If not, he’s just a dickhead who abandoned his children.
By the time I get to the gas station and hose down my shoes in the parking lot, the sun’s sinking into the river. I peruse the selection of fragrant fried food and end up buying way more than Hazel requested. Jojos and corndogs and questionable meat I hope turns out to be chicken.
Cradling the bags in one arm, I pull out my phone and glance at the screen. No message from Ark Man, so I fire off a text.
Still need me tomorrow?
Reply bubbles appear right away.
Yes. Script coming shortly. Are you at the apartment?
I hesitate before replying.
Met up with a friend, so I’m at The Grand for a bit. Should be there in an hour or two.
A thumbs-up emoji appears, so that’s that. Shoving my phone in my pocket, I jog through the hotel lobby and into the elevator.
The instant I open the door, Hazel pounces. “God, Luke—I should have insisted you shower before rushing out like that.”
“Why?” I hand her the grease-speckled bag, and she clutches it to her chest. “You think I handled your corndog with my toes?”
“No, but that’s gross.” She nods at my shoes, which are soggy but reasonably puke-free. “Do you want to eat first or get cleaned up? I had some clothes delivered from the men’s boutique down the street. I took a guess on the size for pants and a shirt, but your shoe size I remember from—” Stopping short, she blushes. “From when you were at my place.”
“Ah, yes.” I can’t help ribbing her a little. “I recall you were fixated on my feet.”
“Not your feet!” she insists. “At least, not in a foot fetish way. It’s just that I’d just never seen such big…shoes.”
“Big…shoes?” Grinning, I dig into my gas station bounty. “It wasn’t the size of my shoes you kept talking about.”
She sputters around a mouthful of potato. “Don’t be a jerk.”
“Don’t be a prude,” I fire back.
