Ezra pitched me an app that would match people’s biorhythms with their optimal pasta shapes.
Then I had a Skype meeting where I talked a client out of liquidating his entire portfolio to invest in a company that claims to be developing teleportation technology. The pitch deck he showed me had clip art.
Even my meeting with Gus was off. He seemed distracted and was constantly checking his phone, which was weird from a man who once described smartphones as “attention parasites.”
To top off my day, as I was heading home, my sister called, which produced the unique blend of anger, guilt, and exhaustion that only family can.
“My day was fine,” I say as I follow the direction of Archie’s voice.
Archie’s sprawled on the sofa with his leg propped.
He gives me a skeptical look. “You look like someone ran you through a corporate blender and forgot to put the lid on.”
I have to bite back a smile. “Thanks for that observation.”
“I ordered in dinner. I thought you’d be hungry.”
I just stare at him. When is the last time someone did something like this for me? Actually cared about my welfare, anticipated what I might want before I even knew I wanted it?
“Thank you,” I say hoarsely.
Archie meets my gaze. Neither of us blinks. Neither of us looks away.
“You’re welcome.” He’s unexpectedly solemn. He glances away, seeming to force a smile onto his face.
“After all, it’s in my best interest for you to keep your energy up.”
“So what did you order?”
“I found a place that makes authentic soul food, and I ordered chicken and dumplings.”
“Chicken and dumplings is literally my favorite food.”
He gives me a smug smile. “Yeah, I figured that.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You figured out that chicken and dumplings is my favorite food?”
He shrugs. “Your surname is Brennan, which is an Irish name. You grew up in Detroit, which had a high Irish immigration. But there was also a wave of Appalachian migration into Detroit in the 1940s to 1960s, driven by people seeking jobs in the automobile industry. And I’ve noticed that when you’re stressed, your vowels flatten a bit and you occasionally drop aG, which supports the idea of Southern ancestry. And when you’re ordering Chinese, you get more chicken dishes compared to beef or pork dishes by a ratio of two to one, so I figured chicken and dumplings would be your favorite Appalachian food.”
I just stare at him for a few heartbeats. What the absolute hell?
“My grandparents were originally from Kentucky before they moved to Detroit,” I say finally. “My grandmother used to make chicken and dumplings all the time.”
Archie gives a triumphant smile. “Thought so.”
“Ah…yeah. You were right. Well done.”
I escape into the kitchen.
Because that’s what it is. Escape. I need some time to remember how my face is supposed to work as I digest what just happened.
The takeaway containers are waiting on the counter, still warm.
The smell hits me again when I peel back the lids. It reminds me of being nine years old, sitting at my grandmother’s table while she told me to sit up straight and eat properly and that I was going to amount to something someday, even if no one else believed it.
I get out a bowl for my food and take longer than necessary to find a spoon.
Because somehow Archie Mansley looked at my surname, my accent, and my Chinese food orders and deduced my favorite food. I don’t know whether to be impressed or unsettled.
