Her eyes softened. Pity, I think. “Parents?” she asked.
My jaw clenched involuntarily.
When I met Winona’s eyes again, I felt a painful stabbing sensation in my chest.
“Never mind,” she said. “None of my business.” Winona grabbed the jar I’d shoved at her, inspecting the label. “Caviar. Of course.”
Fuck. I should have read the labels. I returned to the opposite counter, folding my arms like I didn’t care I’d set yet another obnoxious display of wealth in front of her. “Do you like it?” I was careful not to be so condescending as to ask if she’d ever had it.
Her expression shifted, tightening just a little. Distaste, but not for the food. “It’s fine,” she said. “Spoon?”
I pulled out a drawer, setting a handful of them on the counter with a clink, carefully keeping my distance. She placed her hand on top of the jar, attempting to twist off the top, but it didn’t immediately give.
“Want some help?”
“No, I don’t want help,” she bit out. She smacked the edge of the metal lid on the counter until a soft pop sounded. The jar opened with ease. Winona picked up one of the spoons like this was no big deal.
But with that little move, I’d seen so much. I was mesmerized by her self-sufficiency. She’d clearly been fending for herself for a long time. But that was chased by an irrational spike of anger at whoever it was that gave her that haunted look. At whoever had chased her away. Or maybe she’d never needed help opening jars.
Who was he?I wanted to ask again.What did he do?
Instead, I asked, “Do you have siblings?” Safer territory. And she’d only be reciprocating.
Winona dipped a spoon in the jar. “I have two younger brothers. Twins.”
“Parents?”
“Both gone. Is this what you normally eat for dinner?”
A strange ache squeezed at my chest. My family situation may be fucked up, but I hadn’t lost both parents. I had so many questions, but she wasn’t going to give me more. Not now.
“Caviar’s on Tuesdays,” I said. “Right after lobster. But I’m making an exception for you.”
She tilted her head, jaw dropped dramatically. “Well, I never. First a laugh, then ajoke.”
I scowled, but it was weak. I was too fixated on the way that mock gasp had turned into a grin. The expression lit up her whole face. It lit up the whole room.
Winona spread a spoonful of caviar on a chip. “I’m guessing you don’t normally eat dinner.” She was oblivious to her effect on me. And right on the money again. “Lord knows there’s no way you cook.”
“I’ve cooked.”
“This decade?”
“Now who’s funny?”
She took a bite. “Were you born rich, Mitchell?”
I thought about my childhood, in the suburbs of Seattle, following my older brothers around. Being picked up and swung around by Mom. The whole mood changing when Dad got home.
“No,” I said. “Just a normal middle-class American childhood.” Sort of. “You?”
The question was meant to annoy her, but she shrugged, flicking her spoon around. “Born without a dime. Shown how dirty dimes can be. Now I’ve got my own, but you wouldn’t know it looking at me. Or my house.” She said that last part more quietly, like she’d wanted to start out snarky but accidentally walked into something more personal.
“Is your house the shame of the neighborhood?” I said it rudely, but it was always us. My father spent what money heearned on things people could see: his suits, his car. Never us. It was Mom who mowed the lawn and fixed the broken shingles.
Winona’s nostrils flared just slightly. Had I hit a nerve? Had she spent too much time caretaking someone and building her business? Was looking after her place a nagging item on her to-do list?
“I’ve got better things to do than put on a display,” Winona said, waving her spoon around at my house’s interior.
