Page 93 of Major Penalty

Her face lights up. “The little curly-haired girl who poked you while you were pretending to be dead?”

“That’s the one.” I chuckle.

I lean against the counter beside her, eyes still on the drawing. It’s simple—two stick figures, one small with swirls of brown for hair, one tall with black hair and arms too long for his body. They’re holding hands. The sun is a scribble in the corner, and the grass is jagged green lines.

“She made that for me,” I say quietly. “After months of being terrified of me.”

Irene turns to me, smile fading slightly. “Terrified?”

I nod, jaw tightening. “When I first started volunteering, Mandy wouldn’t come near me. Wouldn’t even look at me. She’d scream and hide behind furniture if I got too close.”

I pause.

“CPS took her after they found her malnourished and bruised. The man she was taken from had black hair and tattoos.”

I feel her looking at me, but I keep my eyes on the drawing.

“She cried every time I stepped into the room. She screamed so loud the first week that they asked me to leave early. She couldn’t calm down while I was there.”

I swallow.

“So, I stayed farther away. Sat in corners. Waited. Every time I came in, I tried to make her laugh. I’d let the other kids jump on me, draw on me, paint my arms, whatever it took. And I’d always glance over where she was curled up in the corner, just…watching.”

My voice drops a little.

“It broke my fucking heart.”

Irene doesn’t speak; she knows there’s more to the story. I let the silence settle between us, the sound of the grill crackling in the background.

“One day, she walked up to me. Didn’t say a word, just held this drawing out and waited.” I nod to the tall figure. “That’s me.” Then to the small one holding his hand. “And that’s her.”

The lump in my throat burns.

“She didn’t need to say anything. That was her way of telling me she wasn’t scared anymore.”

I breathe in deep and try to shake the feeling pressing behind my ribs.

“I wanted to hug her. Wanted to tell her how proud I was. But I didn’t want to overwhelm her. So, I just took the drawing and told her thank you. And she smiled.”

I look at Irene. She’s staring at me like she’s seeing me for the first time.

“And you kept the drawing,” she says, her voice soft, almost in awe.

“I did,” I answer. “When the weather’s shit, I bring it inside. I don’t want it getting ruined.”

“You’re a wonderful man, Ares.” Irene turns back to the drawing with a small, sad smile on her lips. “You remind me of my father.”

She sets the table like she’s done it a hundred times. Like she lives here.

The low lights from the outdoor sconces cast a warm glow over her skin, and for a second, I have to stop and look, because she’s here, in my house, under my roof, placing napkins beside plates like this is where she belongs.

I walk over to the bar station and pour our drinks, then grab the plates and bring them over to the table she’s just finished.

She smiles at me. It hits something in my chest I don’t have a name for yet, something I’ve never felt.

I pull her chair out for her, and she sits. I cross the patio to the outdoor couch, grab the throw blanket I keep there for the colder nights, and drape it over the back of her chair.

She looks up at me, questioning.

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