By the time I get home after my final class for the day, my uncle already has dinner on the stove. “Dumpling soup?” I ask.
He lets out an amused huff, sparing me a glance as I set my things down on the table. “Should have been a chef with a nose like that.”
“Noses don’t make the food.”
“Oh, good Lord. Stop being pedantic for the fun of it and grab the bowls.”
Chuckling, I do as he asks, setting the bowls on the counter beside him. “Be right back.”
As the soup cools enough to eat, I head down the hall to clean up. After washing my hands, I sort through the videos on my phone, looking for one in particular. Finding it, I attach it to a text and send it to Isaac.
Me: In case you were wondering what I meant by unconventional athletics.
The still of the video shows a white athletic sock resting innocently on my bed. Of course, there’s nothing innocent about that sock by the end of the video.
Not expecting an immediate reply, I slip my phone away and head back to the kitchen.
“How was your day?” my uncle asks, waving for me to take a seat. He already filled my bowl for me, steam wafting up from the chicken-and-dumpling soup inside.
“Good,” I answer, sitting opposite him. My lips quirk as I remember Isaac’s flushed face in the shade of the parking garage. “Got myself a boyfriend.”
My uncle coughs, taking the time to clear his throat before responding. “Do I know him?”
“Not yet. Name’s Isaac.”
“Is he in one of your classes?”
“No. I met him at the library.”
A proud smile lifts my uncle’s cheek. “So he’s a brainy type, like you.”
When I only hum, my uncle reaches across the table to smack my shoulder.
“None of that, peque. Look at all you’ve accomplished.”
My uncle never went to college himself. When it comes to academics, he’s been my biggest cheerleader. My only, really. I just wish he didn’t think his lack of a degree put him on a fundamentally different level than me, when we’re so very much the same.
But Rafael Slade is a stubbornly determined man when it comes to what he thinks is right. It’s the very reason he fought so hard to take me in when my mother passed. Heknew it’s what she would have wanted, despite the many hoops he had to jump through to prove he was up to the task.
My uncle has worked hard to ensure I’d have the best chances in life. Ones he was never given.
“He likes literature,” I tell him, doing what I can to repay his faith in me. Giving my uncle space in my world, always. “Emerson and Thoreau. Probably a whole bunch of authors I’ve never even heard of before.”
My uncle snorts, knowing how much of a reader I am.
“He has red hair. Bright red, not just a hint of it in the sunlight. And he’s fierce. You’ll like him.”
“Sounds like it,” my uncle agrees. “Can he cook?”
“Not sure.”
“Well, bring him by. We’ll find out.”
“Raf,” I caution.
Hehumphs. “It’s not a test. I just think if the boy can’t cook, he ought to learn, is all.”
“Uh-huh. You’ll be nice.”
