I do know, and I’m not going to make him say it. The feeling is complicated enough without trying to put it into words.
“I’m sure that’s partly why it was suddenly okay for me to spend the summer here,” Felix says, jumping back to the subject of his family drama.
“What’s the other part?”
He doesn’t answer right away, moving the pan off the heat and shutting off the timer. “It’s easier when I’m not there.”
Another feeling with which I am uncomfortably familiar. Newlywed PDA is not a spectator sport.
Felix sets a bottle of hot sauce on the counter before sliding a bowl over to me. “This place is more than a building.”
“A lot more.”
We’re both silent, stirring our cheesy grits. I blow on the spoon before taking the first bite. “It’s good.”
This is a massive understatement; I want to shove my face into the bowl and inhale.
“It’s just grits.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “But thanks.”
Who knows how goopy the moment would have gotten from there, but no sooner have we made eye contact than two people walk into the kitchen.
Felix and I hastily set down our spoons, mumbling greetings to a scowling Bernie and unreadable Detective Ortiz. Ihave no idea why we’re both acting like we’ve been caught red-handed. Maybe detectives have that effect on people.
“Is everything okay?” Felix asks.
“Besides my nephewdying?” Bernie snaps.
“Ye-es?”
I don’t blame Felix for hesitating; there’s no good answer to a question like that.
“Routine inquiry,” the detective assures us. “A missing item we’re trying to locate. Maybe you’ve seen it around?”
I’m trying so hard not to look in the direction of the painting, my neck feels like a steel column. “What is it?” I ask, in a pale imitation of my normal voice. Luckily, Detective Ortiz has no way of knowing I don’t always sound like I’m talking through a pair of socks.
“Bradley’s EpiPen. It had a distinctive leather case. He was vigilant about wearing it.”
“No.” I shake my head for emphasis. Both responses are too emphatic, but hopefully he can tell it’s from relief rather than dishonesty. Beside me, Felix has also gone full bobblehead.
“Is that mine?” Bernie must have been looking around for things to bitch about, because she’s pointing at the painting. “Did you steal it? Are therethievesrunning around this place too?”
That gets the detective’s attention.
“We bought it,” I volunteer, before he can ask. “At the thrift store.”
“Which one?”
I tell him, then answer a few follow-up questions about when this went down and whether we recognized anything else from this building. What he doesn’t ask is if we knowhowthe painting turned up there.
Felix and I exchange a worried look.
“Anything else?” Detective Ortiz asks a little too perceptively.
“Um, it might have been her nephew,” Felix says in a rush. “Who brought it there.”
“What are you talking about?” Bernie scoffs. “Bradley didn’t shop at thrift stores.”
Felix shrugs. “Just kind of sounded like him, from the description.”
