Page 23 of For the Win
“Is the soup okay?”
“The soup is transcendent.” It’s a hearty creamy affair that is too delicious to be called something as ordinary as soup. I have to fight against my instincts not to lift the bowl and slurp it like a peasant.
“It tastes like I’m on holiday in a Tuscan villa. I’ve never been to Italy,” I add. “But this is how I imagine they eat all the time.”
He busies himself at the counter, but before his head turns, I can see his pleased smile.
After Michael carried me downstairs, I demanded to sit on a stool at the kitchen counter. I didn’t want to eat in bed with him hovering over me like I was an invalid, and I needed the bright, unforgiving kitchen lighting and some furniture between us. Everything has gotten just a little too intimate a little too quickly, and I need to get some answers.
A plate of mini chicken salad sandwiches appears in front of me. “Here.”
How did he put that together so fast?
I snag one and bite into it, tasting the herbed chicken, oranges and walnuts stuffed into a rustic roll that goes perfectly with the soup. “This is the best meal anyone’s ever made for me.”
He didn’t make it for you.
Let me keep my illusions. No man has ever fed me anything that didn’t come from a takeout container or a vending machine, because I don’t date and booty calls don’t worry about that kind of thing. So, I’m going to let myself enjoy every second of this experience.
“I doubt that.” He takes the second stool and sits across from me, finally eating himself while continuing to study my reactions.
“Seriously, Michael. My tastebuds are confused by how good this is. The middle school cafeteria isn’t as good as it sounds, Connor can’t cook worth a damn, and our budget and time are tight, so it’s usually chicken fingers or pizza rolls, along with a healthy pre-made salad mix from the store, of course.”
“Of course.”
His tone has me tossing him a teasing glare between mouthfuls. “Don’t knock the pizza rolls. They got us through college.”
“Your friend Connor is your roommate? You said upstairs you’ve had sixteen years of roommate experience.”
“It’s actually been seventeen this May.”
Saying it out loud slaps me with shock. Has it really been that long? More than half my life?
His eyes widen. “Were youtwelve? Were you staying with his family, or vice versa?”
I shake my head, because either of those options would have been a nightmare.
“We were sixteen when we got our first apartment together. I’m thirty-three.”
He tips his head. “Pretty young to be living on your own.”
“We weren’t that young for our age. And we were ready. We had our official emancipation paperwork in hand, jobs lined up and money in our wallets. We lucked out with our landladyon our first try. She was the sweetest old woman. Baked us chocolate chip cookies every weekend. Then we had dinner at Val’s parents’ house once a week—usually this seafood-and-rice dish that was satisfying and always guaranteed leftovers—but other than that? It was all microwave, all the time until we were in our twenties. Then it was only seventy percent of the time.”
The face he’s making has nothing to do with my eating habits. I know, because it’s the same face everyone makes when they learn we were on our own that early. It’s why I usually keep it to myself. I don’t like the questions that follow, or the compassion mingled with pity. I don’t need it. That tiny, rundown apartment was so much better than what I’d experienced before, it felt like something to be celebrated. It was the first place that felt like an actual home. Where I was safe. Where I was welcome.
Thankfully, he doesn’t pursue the topic. Instead, he asks, “Val?”
“The big man of our fearsome foursome. You might have seen him before you left that night. He was the one carrying Bex out to the ambulance. I should call them after we eat.”
My phone has to be charged by now, and I don’t want any of them worried about me.
He agrees, then continues peppering me with questions about my friends while I attack his food like I’ve just ended a hunger strike. At his genuine interest and total lack of judgment, I find myself oversharing. I tell him about Valentine Caravalho, the nurturer and award-winning architect. Rebecca “it’s complicated, but she might be a ninja” Gordon. And Connor “Chuckles” Lafferty. My people.
“We’ve known each other since we were six years old, and Connor was a bit of a bully at first,” I tell him with a grin, “but after he and I nearly came to blows on the school playground—he had his fists, and I had my glitter glue—we met Bex, whodecided it was her job to mediate. I’m not sure if it was her loud voice or the large, silently intimidating boy behind her that finally got through to me, but by the end of the day the four of us were inseparable.”
As I talk about our childhood, I avoid all the parental drama and stick with our adventures. None of us had the best family situation, with the exception of Val, who was adopted as a baby and has parents that adore him. They’re great.
So is Bex’s uncle who, though his past is full of fascinating criminality, got a job with Tanaka when he discovered he had a teenage niece in need of a guardian. If the Caravalhos were our safe haven of normalcy, Mr. Gordon was the one to give four rebellious kids an alibi whenever it was required.
