“Are you wearing that for your date?” I ask him, to distract him, and it works.
“This? Yeah? Why? It’s bad?” It’s a Mister Rogers sweater, but he cut off the sleeves midbiceps. He’s wearing it open-face with no shirt underneath. And cutoff jean shorts that go down past his knees. He’s got a hairy chest and a shaggy cut down over his eyes. He can’t really grow a beard but his mustache is currently flourishing.
“You know what?” I decide after careful perusal. “He’s probably going to rip his tiny pants off the moment he sees you.”
Raff pats his bare belly. “That’s what I was going for.”
When I finish cooking, I clean. When I finish cleaning, I clean a little more. I’m just checking the expiration dates on his condiments shelf when a big, heavy arm gets draped over my shoulder. “Darling, are we bored?”
“Bored? No, no.” Scared of returning to my sad, cold house where no one loves me? Yes, yes.
His eyes narrow at whatever he reads in my expression. “Should I cancel with Stan? I’m canceling.”
“No! Don’t cancel! I’m leaving.” I bop his phone out of his hands and jam it back into his pocket, maybe a little aggressively.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Something akin to fear crosses his expression. If there’s one thing I’ve learned this last year, it’s that Raff really needs me (and Vin) to be okay. If we’re okay, then he’s okay.
“I’m fine. I’m really fine. I’m gonna go home and crash.”
“Okay…” He’s still suspicious. Following me to the door.
“Probably I’ll watchGolden Girls,” I say, trying to throw him off the scent of my existential depression.
This does the trick. His face eases. If I’m watchingGolden Girls,then nothing bad is going to happen to me. I kiss his cheek at the door, wish him well on his date, and jet toward home.
I’m grumpy, tired, a little torn open and I’m not totally sure why. A bus pulls up to the curb half a block in front of me and I know it doesn’t make sense, but running to catch it actually sounds way more tiring than just walking the twenty blocks home.
I hope Raff’s date is filling him up with joy. I hope they’re laughing a lot. I hope they’re happy and fed. I hope they have amazing sex and then get Raff’s quarterly taxes filed.
God, I’m raw.
Next to me, a car performs an ill-advised and poorly timedleft turn and oncoming traffic slams on its brakes. The braking sound just shreds me. The long, angry horns just end me. Obscenities are flung out open car windows while my heart races. I’m covering my mouth with both hands. By the time I get home, I’m like a balloon that’s had pins dragged across the surface all day long. One more thing and I’m just going to pop.
I stop at my front door and press my forehead there while I fumble out my keys. Dinner. Oh, yeah. I still have to make dinner.
When the door swings open, tears fill my eyes, instantly blurring what I’ve gotten a half-second glance at. Because there’s a full dinner sitting on my kitchen table. A simple chicken and rice. I can see where Vin’s already taken his portion. His bedroom door is open, so I know he’s not home, but there’s a note next to the chicken.
Raff told me you’re helping him make dinner for his date.
Marcia sent chicken and rice home with me today.
—V
Marcia is married to his boss, Esteban. About three times a year she sends Vin home with a meal for us. I, of course, reciprocate. And it really couldn’t have come at a better time. Because Marcia is a boss in the kitchen. Seriously. Some people just have it. And she has it.
I quickly wash up and then make myself a plate, thanking the universe and digging in. I really, really needed someone to make a meal for me tonight.
But…
I chew, swallow, and then take another bite. This is…kind of bland. And kind of tough. A little zip goes down my spine as I rise slowly from my chair and survey my kitchen. Idon’t see any of Marcia’s normal glass Tupperware out. And…there are dishes drying in the rack that I didn’t use. I walk slowly toward my oven, like I’m in a horror movie and the bad guy is about to jump out and make me fight for my life.
There’s a high, tingly, trembly feeling in my chest.
I reach out an open palm. A question. An open request of the universe.Tell me.And I press my palm to the oven door.
It’s still warm.
Eight
