Savory, comforting, a perfect meal.
But I have an agenda, and taking time to eat is not on the menu. I inhale it so quickly I don’t even enjoy the taste. I’m not sure how long Bradley will be sleeping and I still want to learn more about him and pictures are the way to do it.
Between bites, my eyes drift around the kitchen. It’s like stepping into a preserved museum of someone’s grandma’s glory days. Rooster burner covers, a plastic-wrapped floral chair in the corner, and those overly cheerful crocheted pot holders dangling like soft trophies from the oven door.
I can’t help but snort. So unlike what I’d picture Bradley’s kitchen to look.
Then the realization sneaks up and sucker-punches me in the gut. I’m older. Old enough to be someone’s grandfather. This could be my kitchen…well, if I was into that sort of look. Which I’m not. I shake it off fast. I’m not old, I’m seasoned. I’m a goddamn panther. If women can be cougars, then sure as hell, panther works for men.
The plate is empty before I realize it. Rinsing it and the fork in the sink, I give them a quick scrub before placing them neatly in the strainer. Bradley doesn’t need to clean up after me, sick or not. I wipe my hands on a dish towel that smells faintly of lemon and head toward the living room.
I tiptoe across the floor, not wanting to wake up Bradley—he’s still sleeping soundly. He’s rolled onto his side, his hands tucked underneath his face, his lips slightly parted and a string of drool hanging from it. You’d never know he’s as sick as he is.
The hallway is dim but cool, like the rest of the house. I run my fingers lightly along the frames as I pass them—snapshots of years gone by—straightening ones that are not quite centered. I get a virtual video of Bradley as a kid, grinning from ear to ear. I see him with a couple, one he resembles who must be his parents. I watch him grow from a child to a man.
Then… that one. The photo that makes me freeze in my spot. It’s of him and an older woman, clearly family—her skin pale and thinning, propped up in a bed with floral sheets. He’s smiling next to her, but his eyes—his eyes are full of sadness. It’s recent. Or at least, it feels that way. He looks the same as he does now.
It must be his grandmother. The one he just lost. Who raised him and left him this house, and the unknown debt it holds.
The pressure mounting in my bladder urges me to head to the bathroom. I continue down the hallway until I reach it, closing the door gently behind me, and relieve myself. I’m in the middleof washing my hands, water rushing over my soapy fingers, when I hear it—faint but clear.
“Jefferson.” It’s a little broken, a little unsure. Did he think I left?
“I’ll be right there—in the bathroom,” I call out, already reaching for the washcloth and running it under cool water. He needs a new one.
When I step back into the living room, he’s sitting up a bit, my phone in his hand. “Your phone was ringing,” he says, holding it out to me.
But his face…he looks broken, crushed.
His expression is off. Not groggy, not sleepy. Wrong. Too still. Too quiet.
“Your phone was ringing,” he says again, and it’s not the words that make my heart hitch.
It’s how he says them.
“I got you a new washcloth.” I hand it out to him as I take the phone from him. A gentle exchange. He swings his legs off the couch, placing his feet on the floor, standing slowly.
“Thank you for tonight. For the soup and taking care of me. I’ll make sure you get your money returned. But I’m going to go to bed.” He’s already stepping around me, heading to the front door.
“Bradley. I don’t want the money back. Is everything okay?”
He turns around, facing me, “Peachy. I’m just ready to shower and crawl into my bed. But I can’t do that until I lock the door.” He smiles. But it’s forced.
“Okay.” I follow behind him, not sure what to say.
When we reach the door, I lean in to kiss him and he turns his head away from me.
That hurt.
“I don’t want to get you sick if it’s contagious.” It’s what he says, but I don’t believe him. I think there’s more.
As soon as I step across the threshold onto the porch, the door shuts, the clicking of the lock going into place, and effectively locking me out.
It’s only then I look down at my phone and see who called.
Malcolm.
Did it upset him? We’re not dating, but I do want to pursue whatever this is between us outside the framework of the Foxy website.
