Page 87 of Who I Really Am

“Sure. To go with the donuts.”

He lifts an eyebrow. He does that a lot, and always the left one. “Sunday school, eh? You color pictures of Noah and the animals?”

“Not in some time, no.”

“I think that was the last lesson I was there for.”

“Been a while, has it?”

Stretching out, he folds his hands on his chest. “Mom dragged us kids to church services religiously until we were grown and could make our own decisions.”

“Dragged?”

Marco shrugs one shoulder. “Hyperbole, actually. I didn’t mind so much. It was Maria who went kicking and screaming.”

“And now?”

“She and Adolfo never miss a Sunday.”

“But you?”

His thumb begins drumming. “I did church some in college, but between studying and working…now, it doesn’t fit with my lifestyle, you know? My job.”

I get the feeling he wants my approval. Or understanding. Justification? I get that church is a no-go when he’s on assignment, but honestly, the rest sounds like a copout to me, and I should know. The last four years, my church attendance has been sketchy, more so the closer I got to graduation. It isn’t that I believe attendance is factored into my eternity or anything, but looking back, I can see a correlation between my showing up on Sundays and my faith. My behavior. Kind of a chicken versus egg dilemma, but perhaps there was a connection. So, while I’m not going to let him off the hook, I’m not going to condemn him either. Far be it from me to pass judgment.

The wheels turn a little longer, and then he dismisses whatever he’s pondering. “Want some pancakes?”

Whoa. “You cook?”

Drawing his feet in, he pushes his chair from the table. “Goodness no. Mom made them before work.”

I watch him lift one inverted plate off another, one piled high with fluffy-looking pancakes. He microwaves a couple, then sets them in front of me, along with a butter dish, a syrup bottle, and flatware.

He sits and watches me eat while he sips a fresh cup of coffee. “Have you taken your medicine?”

“Not yet,” I answer around a mouthful of food.

His eyebrows come down to form a scowl. Wow, he says an awful lot without actual words—I guess we all do, so say the experts. “Relax. All in good time. I’m supposed to have food in my stomach.”

“Fine, just know I’m keeping an eye one you.”

I blink up, surprised at the tinge of concern. I mean, we’re strangers except…well, except there is an increasing volume of water under the bridge between us, isn’t there?

“You’re not the boss of me.” Yes, I actually stick my tongue out at him. Childish? You betcha, but an effective diversion.

He rolls his eyes, heck, his whole head, clear to the ceiling. “Good grief, are you twelve?”

“Plus ten, do the math.” I shovel more truly yummy food into my mouth. “These are sooo good, Marco. What does your mom do to them?”

He scruffs his hand across his jaw and there’s that scratchy sound I love.

Grr. I want to smack myself. How can I even think these thoughts about Marco? About any man? I’ve clearly demonstrated I don’t play well with others, men in particular.

“It’s probably the Mexican vanilla you’re tasting.”

If he says so. I’m two bites away from finishing my meal when a third pancake appears beside my plate. I didn’t even notice him leave the table.

I doctor that one up and plow through it equally as fast. Somewhere in the process my coffee cup was miraculously filled, as well. I douse it with the appropriate amount of creamer and press on.

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