Page 88 of What If I Hate You
Blakely stiffens beside me. “Wait. You work here?”
“Yeah.” I grab a couple aprons off the hook and toss her one. “This isn’t an autograph session. Most of these people don’t even know who I am. To them I’m just a big guy who slings soup into their bowl once a week and helps them feel a little less put out.”
She stares at the apron in her hands, then at me. “You never talk about this.”
“Not really the point,” I mutter, tying mine behind my back.
Her eyes soften. “Barrett…”
I clear my throat and head toward the line. “Come on. They’ll show you what to do.”
We spend the next hour ladling soup, stacking bread, pouring coffee. It’s busy, warm, loud in the kind of way thatwraps around your ribs and stays there. Some people recognize me but no one asks for a picture or an autograph. No one razzes me about wins or losses. No one mentions that I’m the millionaire that feeds the poor. Not here. Not at St. Luke’s.
Blakely’s a natural because of course she is. She’s got that way about her, that ability to make people feel seen. She talks to the guests like they matter, like she’s not here for a story or a headline. And every time I glance over, she’s smiling. Not her reporter smile, but her real one, the one she tries not to let out too often.
When the crowd thins out, I find her leaning against the counter, wiping her hands on her apron. She looks over at me, eyes wide with something unreadable.
“How long have you been doing this?”
“Six…seven months or so.”
“And you never mentioned it?”
I shrug. “Didn’t need to. It’s not about that.”
She steps closer, voice lower. “You show up. Quietly. No PR team. No press. You just… give.”
I stare at her, not sure what to say.
“You’re not who I thought you were,” she says softly.
That hits harder than it should and I’m not sure if I’m surprised by that or not. She’s quiet when we leave St. Lukes, but it’s the look on her face that’s been messing with my head these past few minutes. Like I cracked something open in her without meaning to and now I’m bracing for it.
“You okay?” I ask finally, watching her out of the corner of my eye.
She nods but doesn’t look at me. That’s how I know the question’s coming.
“Can I ask you something?”
I almost laugh. “You’re going to anyway.”
She stops walking. I take a few more steps before I realize she’s no longer beside me and then turn back.
“Why don’t people know you do this?”
My shoulders tense before the words are even fully out of her mouth.
“Do what?”
“This,” she says, motioning behind us toward St. Luke’s. “The volunteering. The showing up. The giving a damn. You’re not just writing a check, Barrett. You’re actually in there, sleeves rolled up, cracking jokes with people who clearly know you.”
I shrug. “I don’t do it for credit.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I shove my hands deep into my jacket pockets. God, I hate talking about this. Not because it’s some big secret, but because the moment it becomes athing, it changes. Becomes currency. Content.
“I told you earlier, it’s not about me,” I mutter.
