6. Poppy
6
Poppy
A n hour below the streets of New York is too long. Especially when you throw in a delay on the A train, broken air conditioning, and the ache in my soles after being on my feet all day. I have never been so relieved to step off the subway in my life.
When my boss called early this morning to ask me to cover a last-minute shift for a coworker who called in sick, as much as I wanted to say no, I took it. I should be grateful. I need the money desperately, but two hours a day on the subway is unbearable, especially when there are loads of places nearby I could work. I spent yesterday afternoon handing out résumés, so fingers crossed something comes up. Even with the business Bailey and I are about to launch, I need a steady income stream. Who knows when the new venture will start to pay off?
Turning onto Fruit Street, the tension eases from my shoulders. This neighborhood is so beautiful on a summer evening, the low sun bathing the townhouses in an orange glow, the sound of laughter drifting from where people sit outside Joe’s Coffee. The air is still hot, and my blue polyester uniform clings to my skin, making me itch. I should probably stay out for a while, give Mr. Mathers his space, but I’m dying to have a shower and change into something more comfortable. Besides, I can’t avoid him forever, even though I’m still fairly certain that’s what he’d prefer. Last night he barely spoke to me, and when Bailey excused herself for the bathroom, he fled upstairs and didn’t return for the rest of the evening. It’s like he didn’t even care that Bailey was leaving the next day. Given everything I know about the man, that tracks.
I pass a metal fence containing rows of plants in neat wooden boxes. A sign on the gate reads Fruit Street Community Garden, and I pause to gaze at the plots of flowers, vegetables, and other shrubs. A familiar voice carries on the breeze, and my gaze follows the sound to see Mr. Mathers, sitting on a wooden bench beside an elderly man, their backs to the street. He slides his phone into his pocket and turns to the old man with a smile.
“Even from the West Coast she’s giving me trouble,” Mr. Mathers says, his voice warm with laughter.
He must be talking about Bailey. That means she’s landed safely. I meant to check in with her, but stupidly left my phone at home today. Another reason two hours on the subway was pure hell.
“You’re going to miss her,” the old man responds, and Mr. Mathers nods.
“I am. She’s a great kid.”
I smile to myself, turning to leave, when the old man responds in a voice laced with so much sadness, my feet refuse to walk away. “Joyce always wanted children. We bought a huge house to fill with them.” When I glance back, he’s slumped on the bench, as if his thin, frail frame is trying to fold in on itself. “It wasn’t meant to be.”
A lump forms in my throat at his words. What does that mean? I don’t even know the man, and yet I want to race into the garden and give him a hug.
I’m completely taken aback when Mr. Mathers reaches for his wrinkled, papery hand, placing his large, tattooed one over the top.
“I’m sorry, Marty.” His voice is so soft, I hold my breath in surprise. “Life can be so cruel sometimes, can’t it?” He says this with such conviction that I have to stop myself from calling out to ask him what he means.
“It sure can, my boy.”
My boy . It’s such an affectionate nickname for Mr. Mathers, and doesn’t sit at all with the image I have of him. I stare at the two men as they sit, until realizing I’m intruding on a personal, private moment. I swallow and turn away, trying to process what I saw, how kind Mr. Mathers was with that sweet old man. Marty . I’d always assumed Mr. Mathers didn’t have that soft side to him. Anyone looking at his rugged exterior would come to the same conclusion. Then there’s the fact that he was absent from Bailey’s life for all those years…
I push the thought away and continue along the street. Mr. Mathers is out for now, so it’s safe to head home, but he won’t be out forever. Besides, it’s not sustainable to simply try to avoid him all the time. He might have been a little standoffish when I arrived yesterday, but Bailey was moving away. That probably distracted him—he just said how much he’s going to miss her. And there was something about what he said about life being cruel, the way his voice softened, that makes me pause. Despite knowing I should probably leave him alone, an idea blossoms in my head, and I make a left off Fruit Street and head to the grocery store.
I have five missed calls and three texts from Bailey when I finally get home to my phone. I chuckle to myself as I plod down the stairs from my room, after showering and changing into a loose, summery dress, and press the button to call her back.
“Thank God,” she answers breathlessly. “You’re okay.”
I can’t help but laugh again. “Of course I’m okay. I left my phone at home, is all.”
“Well, don’t do it again.” She’s trying to be stern, and it makes me smile. “I was worried Kurt had tracked you down, and…”
“And what?” I ask lightly when she trails off.
“I don’t know. But… I worry, Poppy, especially since we’re not there now.”
I release a long breath, unpacking the groceries onto the counter. Mr. Mathers still isn’t home, which is perfect. It gives me time to cook up something delicious.
“You know I haven’t heard from Kurt for months,” I assure Bailey, and she snorts.
“That makes me even more nervous. Like he’s planning something.”
I roll my eyes, glad she can’t see me, as I survey the spread on the counter. I’m going to make homemade burgers with fries. The grocery store had some lovely grass-fed beef that will make for big, juicy patties, and I figured you can’t go wrong with that. What red-blooded male doesn’t like a burger?
“Poppy,” Bailey says, her voice gentle. “I’m worried you’ve forgotten how bad it was.”
I turn away from the food and lean against the counter, pressing my eyes shut. I haven’t forgotten, exactly. I just don’t let myself think about it.
“The manipulation, the games, the way he wouldn’t talk to you for days then would show up at work…” Bailey pauses, as if to let that sink in, then adds, “The way he made you question your own sanity, for Christ’s sake.”
I grit my teeth as Bailey rattles off everything I went through with Kurt.
“And the money…” There’s a note of anger in Bailey’s tone now. “He took all that money from you. God, I want to kill him.”
“You and me both,” I mutter. The money bothers me most, actually, because I’d been saving since I was a teenager, working at a local diner back in Indiana.
Still. I can always make more money. The main thing is that he’s out of my life, for good.
Bailey sighs. “Promise me you’ll be careful, and tell Dad about him. If he shows up, Dad won’t let him hurt you.”
I smile. “Speaking of your dad,” I say, turning back to the food laid out on the kitchen counter. “He likes burgers, right? I’m going to cook for us.”
“He does, but not with meat. Did I tell you he’s a vegetarian?”
“What? Really?” Her chuckle echoes from the phone, and my eyes narrow. “Are you kidding?”
“I’m not kidding,” she says through her laughter. “He’s been a vegetarian as long as I’ve known him. Since he was a kid, I think.”
I blink, absorbing this. Mr. Mathers, that huge, towering, muscled hunk of a man, doesn’t eat meat? I want to be annoyed at the money I wasted on grass-fed beef—money I absolutely cannot afford to waste right now—but I’m too shocked.
“If you can make him a veggie burger, he’d love that.” Bailey’s words bring me back to the situation at hand, and I cast my eyes over the contents on the counter, frowning. I’ve made veggie burgers before—lentils are good for that—but I didn’t buy what I’d need. I’d planned on beef.
“I don’t have the ingredients,” I mutter, rubbing my forehead in defeat. Here I was, trying to do something nice, to clear the air between me and him after it felt like we’d gotten off on the wrong foot, and I’ve already bungled it.
Kurt would jump in at this moment to reinforce that leaving culinary school was obviously the right move, and I frown, annoyed at myself for letting that thought creep in. I touch the lotus tattoo on the inside of my wrist to remind myself how much stronger I am now.
“Check the pantry,” Bailey says. “He’ll have whatever you need.”
I grimace. “I can’t—”
“Sure you can. He won’t mind.”
Glancing over my shoulder to check the doorway, as if Mr. Mathers is waiting there with his arms folded, ready to yell at me, I tiptoe across the kitchen and open the pantry. Rows of glass containers line the shelves, all carefully labeled, and it only takes me a second to find three different types of lentils. He has canned beans, too—black beans might be better for burgers—and every possible spice and herb I could imagine. I scan the contents of his pantry, entranced by the selection of ingredients. As a bachelor, I kind of imagined he’d live off bags of Doritos, boxes of Kraft Mac & Cheese. A quick peek into the freezer confirms there isn’t a frozen pizza in sight, and I blink in surprise. Mr. Mathers must cook.
Something about that makes him even more attractive.
Back in the pantry, I retrieve a can of black beans, then grab a container of walnuts. I’ll make my own breadcrumbs, but—
“Does he eat eggs?” I ask, pausing in front of the fridge.
“Yep. Eggs, dairy, all that. Just not meat.”
Perfect.
I grab an egg from the fridge and set it on the counter, then pull on my apron and tie it around my waist—another thoughtful gift from Bailey. It’s made from light blue cotton printed with vibrant red poppies, trimmed with a cute red frill along the top and bottom. She got it for my birthday last year, and I adore it.
As I set about mixing the ingredients for the patties, I ask Bailey to tell me about San Francisco. She talks happily while I mold the patties into shape, then place them in the fridge to set while I prepare the fixings for the burgers. It’s nice to have my friend’s voice in my ear, and for a moment I can almost forget she isn’t here.
We end the call, and I turn my full attention to preparing the fries. The secret to good homemade fries is to coat them in batter before shallow frying them. I find two pans under the counter and use one to heat the oil for the fries before dropping them in, careful not to overcrowd the pan. It occurs to me much too late that if Mr. Mathers doesn’t come home soon, burgers and fries don’t keep well, but there’s a noise at the front door right as I lower the patties into the sizzling oil in the second pan.
Mr. Mathers appears in the doorway, his brow low as he gazes at the mess in his kitchen.
“I’ll clean it up,” I say hastily, wiping the back of my hand across my suddenly sweaty brow. “I figured… you might be hungry?”
His brows slowly rise, as if he’s surprised at what I’m offering. Despite my best efforts, my gaze dips to take in the dirt-stained T-shirt that strains across his chest. He smells like sweat and earth, and it’s an effort to bring my gaze back to his.
“It’s vegetarian,” I add, attempting a smile.
He exhales, setting a basket overflowing with vegetables down on what little counter space is free. I eye them with interest, then flip the patties in the pan, pleased when they stay together. Mr. Mathers still hasn’t said anything, but I can feel his gaze moving across me from head to toe. God, I must be quite the sight, my apron dusty with flour from the batter, my hair a wild mess from the heat of the stove. I focus on removing the first lot of fries from the pan and adding the second, wondering if he will simply turn and leave. And while part of me wouldn’t be surprised, I have to admit I might be a little hurt.
But he lifts one tattooed arm to drag a hand through his hair and nods. “Sounds good. I’ll quickly shower.” Then he takes the stairs, the old boards creaking under his steps.
I should be pleased he’s agreed to eat with me. That’s what I wanted, right? To try to find a way for us to coexist peacefully here?
But as I listen to the shower turn on upstairs, thinking about the way Mr. Mathers hesitated so long before answering, all I feel is a tight ball of uncertainty in the pit of my stomach.