“No, you’re fine. I’m used to it. The swearing and the…what do you call them? Chirps?”
I couldn’t help a small laugh. “Yeah. Chirps.”
The silence after that was heavy, but it wasn’t awkward. I could hear the sounds of him cooking: metal spatula on a grill, his feet shuffling, something squeaking like Styrofoam. Then I heard his footsteps coming closer, and I caught a whiff of something savory and spiced.
“How would you like me to do this?”
“Do what?”
“Your food.”
“Oh.” It was exhausting sometimes, being around sighted people who didn’t know any of these things and still needed instruction. Being involved in a blind team meant I was in my little bubble that the outside world didn’t often touch. “Just set it down and tell me what it is.”
“Shawarma,” he said, and I heard the squeak of Styrofoam again as he slid the food in front of me. “It’s pieces of chicken over a bed of rice, and there’s some beet and cabbage salad at the top of the container on the left. Hummus on the right. Pita wrapped in paper on top.”
It smelled heavenly. “Fork?”
“Ah. Yes. I forgot.”
“Do you normally eat this with your hands?” There was a pointed silence, and I flushed when I realized I sounded judgy. “I meant that literally. I have a teammate from Bangladesh, and he eats with his hands. I didn’t want to assume it was the same, but?—”
“I prefer it, but that isn’t how I grew up.”
“Me too.” I wiggled my fingers at him. “Blind guy thing. Forks are a giant pain in the ass.”
I felt around the container—the pile of chicken soft, the rice grainy, the salad wet, the hummus…well, it was hummus, but his was some of the best I’d ever tasted.
At the first bite, I sagged back against the chair and groaned loudly. “Are you fucking kidding me with this?”
“It’s…?”
“Amazing,” I said before he could start self-deprecating. Though he had to know how fucking good he was at this. “It’s one of the best things I’ve had in my mouth. I’ve never tasted anything like it. I wasn’t even hungry before.” I shoved another bite of chicken and rice into my face. I probably looked like some kind of starving goblin, but I didn’t give a shit. It was protein. There’s no way my nutritionist or Tucker could be pissed about me filling myself with chicken.
“I…you like it?” His voice was a little hesitant.
I lifted my face. “Do people talk shit about it or something? God, people are the fucking worst?—”
“No, no, I just…” He laughed softly. “It’s nice when you work hard at something and people enjoy it the way it’s meant to be enjoyed. My brother and I were originally going to do this together, but Alexio didn’t want to give up his career, and I didn’t blame him. This wasn’t his passion, and luckily, Natasia and I are able to keep the place running.”
“Well—” I flicked rice off my fingers, hoping I wasn’t making a mess all over the table. “—count me in as a repeat customer. My coaches and nutritionist will kill me, but I don’t even care.” I took another bite and spoke through it. “Totally fucking worth it.”
He laughed again. “Thank you. I—oh. Your father’s awake.”
A strange sensation zinged up my spine. It was an emotion I was entirely unfamiliar with. Somewhere between anger, irritation, and fear. I felt around but couldn’t find a napkin, so I gave up and swiped my hands on my sweats before pushing to my feet.
“Mind giving me a hand again?”
“Of course.”
I took Nikos’s arm and walked the same path back toward the other side of the shop, and he came to a slow halt. I could hear a grumbling wheeze coming from in front of me, and then my dad coughed loudly.
It sounded wet, which was probably not a good sign.
“Dad.”
“No, no.”
“Peter,” Nikos tried. “Your son’s here to see you.”
