He should know he’s the one who’s doing me a favor by giving me something to do. I’d planned on going through Ruth’s scrapbooking room this afternoon, so he gave me the privilege to bail. I haven’t been able to make sense of that specific inheritance, and going through something she loved so much only amplifies how much I miss her. It’s easy to forget whose stuff I’m giving away when it’s rusted fondue pots or lamps, but the moment I opened the door to that room last night and saw all the pictures and containers of glitter I’d always find on her hands, my breath caught and I closed the door behind me. There would be no way to ignore these were her things, which would in turn remind me I’d never see those glitters stuck to her fingers again. I’m more than fine pushing that to another day.
“Cassie, I’m hungry,” Zoe whines. “Like, so hungry I could eat a house.”
I snicker. “All right, Gretel. Let’s get you fed.”
We climb down the stairs and enter a new living area. Gone are the scattered toys and overflowing recycling bin. The space smellslike lemon sanitizer, the hardwood floors shining. From the back door, I can see the yard looks nice; the smell of fresh-cut grass entering the house from the open windows. In the kitchen, we find Eli scrubbing the floor on all fours, still shirtless, a light sheen of sweat covering his neck.
“Hey, Cinderella.”
He looks up, then sits on his haunches. Zoe runs to him like she hasn’t seen her father in days, and he welcomes her with open arms, pressing a kiss to her head as she laughs and tries to tell him all we’ve done today in a single breath. How lucky she is to be running to him knowing he’ll catch her.
“Little miss is so hungry she’s threatening to destroy your house, so I’ll make dinner.” I open his fridge, finding even that pristine. “If you’re fine with grilled cheeses, that is.” I’ve never been a great cook, and when it’s just me, I’m good with dinners made up of crackers and cheese or a big bowl of cereal. With Michael, we’d order takeout most days after work, and I was fine with it.
“Please,” Eli says, now on his feet. “I’ve been a victim of those grilled cheeses before.”
“My grilled cheeses are fine.”
“Sure.” The little shit grins. “I’ll make you dinner. It’s the least I can do.” He leads Zoe to the dinner table, where she immediately remakes the mess Eli just cleaned by pulling crayons and papers out. “But unless you want to eat chicken nuggets with a side of more chicken nuggets, I think we can have her eat first, and I’ll fix us something later.”
A dinner, just the two of us. It’s dangerous. I know this even without having done it in years. Probablybecausewe haven’t done it in years. But Eli is a giver. He probably won’t sleep for days if he can’t pay me back in some way, and cooking a meal is a simple way to do so. We’ve eaten together hundreds of times before, from sloppy beachside hotdogs sitting on a curb beside his dad’s food truck, to sandwiches he’d make for me when I came over during the day.
“Sure. Thanks.”
“You got it.” He then turns to the freezer and proceeds to cook just what he said for Zoe, all the while she snacks on goldfish crackers.
“They tell you to feed your kid veggies and healthy stuff,” Eli says as he spurts ketchup on the plate. I look up from the emails I was answering; notices about coworkers’ birthdays and new unit protocols, mostly. “But what they forget to say is your child will likely call you a monster if you add a single piece of broccoli to their plate.”
I laugh just as Zoe pokes me. “Look, I drew us.”
I almost choke on my saliva. She’s somehow decided to draw us horizontally, with me on top of Eli—if “me” and “Eli” can even be used in this situation, considering the drawing that I assume is supposed to be me is one big blob of yellow and brown hair, and I’m dressed in a trash bag, and Eli is only in his yellow-body naked form. Meanwhile, Zoe is standing next to us, holding what looks like a torch.
“What are we supposed to be doing there, Zoe Bear?” Eli says over my shoulder. I hadn’t realized he was there until his breath brushes down my back.
“I’m lighting a fire.”
“Maybe she’s the one the FBI should take a look at,” I mumble. He makes a choked sound.
“And you’re dancing,” she says, like that’s the most obvious answer.
In my ear, Eli whispers, “Not sure I’m familiar with that type of dancing.”
I fold my lips between my teeth, and when Eli hands Zoe her plate and accompanies her through her dinner like nothing happened, I want to give him a medal. I haven’t been able to remain as composed. Images I spent years trying not to dream about have snaked their way into my mind. Dancing, my ass.
Once Zoe is done, I go play with her a little more while Eli starts dinner—I’m guessing some kind of pasta sauce that smells heavenly—and then he’s going back upstairs with her for bath time and bed. I finish scrolling through my emails, which I could’ve done without. For long moments this past week, the hospital slipped my mind, which is something that hadn’t happened in so long, I’d forgotten how it felt not to be constantly burdened by something. This was a not-so-gentle reminder of what I’m going back to in two weeks. Then, I get to the texts I missed from Emily this afternoon.
Em: How are things?
Em: I miss you here. We had a code brown earlier. SOS.
I chuckle. Code Brown is the word combination no nurse ever wants to hear.
Em: Any updates about hottie neighbor?
I need to remember never to leave my phone unattended with Eli around.
Still hot. Cooking me a friendly meal tonight
Em: “Friendly”
