“She’s—” Fitz voice is fucking wistful. “Are you interested or can I…” His voice trails off but his meaning is clear.
“No, you cannot.”
It’s his turn to grin. “I see.” He spoons up more chili. “This probably needs more jalapeños. Maybe a serrano.”
“Only if you want to overwhelm the brisket.” I drain my beer and lift the bottle to him in question.
“Nah. I’m good with water.”
“Be right back,” I offer and head to the kitchen to rinse the bowl, taking the empty beer bottles and adding them to the recycling on the way.
When I return, he’s laser focused on the game. His face is serious, but he accepts one of the glasses of water I offer. “I’m moving.” Two words. A decision. One a long time in the making.
I nod. We’re not the kind of men who divulge our deepest secrets or hidden demons. But he’s a good man, one of very few I trust. “You’ll be missed.”
“Thanks. It’s time. Mom is sick and they need me.”
“No need to explain, brother. I don’t like it, but I get it. Family is family.”
“Exactly.”
“Besides, you can always come back.”
He shakes his head as if he knows his fate is sealed, before a bit of levity hits his tone. “At least you don’t have to worry about me stealing your girl.” His head tilts toward the townhouse connected to mine.
Not my girl, I think. But not his either.
“That’s a relief,” I deadpan.
“What’s the story there?”
“She likes Madonna.” That sums it up.
“Enough said.” He turns his attention to the screen. “My Astros are going to wipe the floor with your Rockies.”
“Sure,” I nod to the screen. “In an alternate universe where they can compete.”
“Don’t start.” There’s humor in his voice.
“You could always pick a winner, you know.”
“Hey, now. You know better. Some things you’re born into. Like knowing better than to put beans in chili, sayingYes, Ma’am, andNo, Ma’am, taking care of your momma, and the fucking Houston Astros.”
I’ve got to get better about that Mom one.
Lorien
She likes Madonna? That’s the answer?
I guess it’s better thanshe’s not a pleasant anything.
Fine, I admit it. I was listening. Of course, I was. I wanted to know, or I thought I did.
My neighbor might be grumbly, but I expected more than to be reduced into two sentences that apparently say everything necessary to the man whose recipe he followed.
I want to yell,I’m a biochemist and a daughter. I’m a sister on the verge of a life-changing breakthrough. I believe in female empowerment. I love beans in chili, and there’s more to me than my music choices. Darn it, I’m a freaking delight.
Instead, I slump below the cracked window and allow myself a good cry.
