Page 12 of Franco
I open the door, aware that I probably look a mess. Hair falling from my bun, sleep creases on my face, still in my pink diner uniform.
"You didn't ice your ankle," Franco says by way of greeting, his eyes dropping to my swollen joint.
"I fell asleep," I admit, stepping back to let him in. "What's all this?"
He walks past me into the kitchen, setting the bags on the counter. "Groceries. Ice packs. Proper pain relievers."
I follow him, watching in bewilderment as he unpacks the bags. There's good bread from the bakery downtown, not the cheap stuff I usually buy. Fresh vegetables. Actual brand-name peanut butter instead of the generic kind. Chicken, pasta, fruit. Things I would buy if I had the money, if I didn't have to stretch every dollar.
"Franco," I say, my voice catching embarrassingly, "I can't accept all this."
He pauses, a box of premium ice packs in his hand. "Why not?"
"Because..." I struggle to articulate the complex tangle of pride and gratitude and confusion knotting in my chest. "It's too much. I don't understand why you're doing this."
Franco sets the ice packs down and turns to face me fully. "You need food. I bought food. It's simple."
But it's not simple. Nothing about this situation is simple.
"People don't just do things like this without wanting something in return," I say, hating how suspicious I sound but unable to help it. Life has taught me that lesson too well.
"I don't want anything from you."
"Then why?" I press, needing to understand. "Why the groceries? Why the time off? Why are you here right now instead of... whatever it is you normally do on weekday afternoons?"
Chapter 5 - Franco
"Why the groceries? Why the time off? Why are you here right now instead of... whatever it is you normally do on weekday afternoons?"
She's standing in her small kitchen, still wearing the pink diner uniform with its coffee stains and grease spots, hair falling from her messy bun, dark circles under her confused brown eyes. She looks exhausted, suspicious, and entirely justified in her wariness.
I should have an answer ready. I always have answers. Clear, concise explanations for my actions, calculations of risk and benefit. But standing in her cluttered apartment, surrounded by evidence of her struggle—past-due notices on the counter, worn furniture, the single bedroom I glimpsed where she clearly shares a bed with her son to save space, I find myself without my usual tactical clarity.
"I don't know," I say again, the truth slipping out before I can think of something more logical.
Sarah stares at me, clearly expecting more. When nothing follows, she laughs—a short, disbelieving sound. "You don't know. You just decided to track down where I work, arrange paid leave with my boss, buy a hundred dollars' worth of groceries, and deliver them to my apartment... for no reason."
Put that way, my actions sound irrational even to my own ears. I focus on unpacking the remaining items to avoid her gaze. "The ice packs," I say instead of answering. "You should use them. Twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off."
"Franco." Her voice is softer now, but insistent. "Please. I need to understand what's happening here."
I set down the container of orange juice I'm holding and turn to face her fully. She deserves an explanation, even if I'm not entirely sure I understand my own motivations.
"I'm not good at this," I admit.
"At what?"
"Helping. Without an agenda." I search for words that will make sense. "In my world, everything is transactional. If I do something for someone, it's because they have something I need, or because Dante—my boss—ordered it."
"And this?" she asks, gesturing to the groceries. "What's the transaction here?"
I shake my head. "There isn't one. That's the point. I saw you limping at the diner, working despite being in pain, and I... wanted to help. Without expecting anything in return. I don't know why."
It's more honesty than I've offered anyone in years, possibly decades. It leaves me feeling strangely exposed, vulnerable in a way I'm not accustomed to.
Sarah studies my face, as if searching for deception. Finally, she sighs and leans against the counter, taking weight off her injured ankle.
"Okay," she says. "Thank you. For the groceries. For the time off. It's... it helps a lot."
