17
Jake
“You need me to bandage those?” asks Frida a half hour into the night.
“Nah. I’ll be fine.”
“Sorry. Let me rephrase that. Sit down so I can bandage your hands, Chef. Nobody wants that near their food.”
With an eye roll, I pull out a stool and sit down, surprised to see that she’s already gotten out the first aid kit.
“Hope the other person looks worse than you do.” She smirks, wrapping my hands with the kind of efficiency only someone who spent decades as an emergency room nurse can have. “’Cause you look like shit, Jake.”
“I’m fine.”
Giving me an eye roll of her own, she tuts and glances toward the door to the dining room. “Told you I’m immune to toxic masculinity.” She smirks. “It’s like theoppositeof Kryptonite for me. Macho shit just makes me stronger.”
“Good thing I’m a feminist then, isn’t it?”
“Mm-hmm.” She glances again at the door to the dining room. “She see this yet?”
“What’s that?”
“Boss know you’re moonlighting as an extra in our local Fight Club?”
“I’m not?—”
“You two gonna make it official or what?”
“How did you know we were?—”
“I didn’t,” she cackles. “But now I do!”
I pause, shut my mouth, and sit back on the stool, staring at her for a handful of seconds while she very purposefully does not look at me, instead focusing on getting my knuckles wrapped nice and tight before grabbing the pair of gloves she’s already set aside.
“There’s nothing to make official.”
She snorts, giving me the kind of look my dad used to give me when I lied right to his face. “At least you’re not insulting my intelligence by pretending you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“Wouldn’t dare.”
“That’s what I like about you.”
“Just that?”
“One of the many things I like about you, Jake.” Frida’s got this stare, man. Dark and sharp enough to cut right to the heart of a person. If she points it just right, I’m pretty sure it’ll do permanent damage. “But I’m gonna give you a word of advice.”
“Please don’t. I’m not in the market for?—”
“Yes you are, now shut up.”
“Geez. All right. Give it to me.”
“Kitty’s all hard on the outside. ’Cause she’s had to be. Had some rough setbacks. Especially recently. In fact…” Frida hands me the gloves and drops her hands in her lap, her eyes losing their focus as she goes back to some place I’m not convinced I want to know anything about. “It’s how we met.”
My eyebrows fly up in surprise. “You didn’t meet here?”
She shakes her head, her mouth going so flat it almost disappears in the network of wrinkles around it. “It’s not my story to tell, but I met her at my last job.”
