Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Leo
The apartment smells like my grandmother’s kitchen.
I stop in the doorway, keys still in hand, because that can’t be right.
My grandmother’s been dead for twelve years, and her kitchen was in a cramped house in Detroit that smelled like chicken and dumplings, pot roast, cigarette smoke, and the particular kind of love that came with criticism about my posture.
But I can’t mistake the rich and savory scent, with an undertone of butter and black pepper.
“You’re back.” Archie’s voice floats from somewhere near the sofa. “How was your day?”
My day. My day started with dog walking, which went smoothly right up until Mrs. Winthrop’s Pomeranian discovered a foxhole, and I discovered that a five-pound dog can generate approximately eight hundred pounds of pulling force when properly motivated.
I spent ten minutes lying face-down on Hampstead Heath with my arm wedged in a hole while Cinnamon barked like I was the one being unreasonable.
That was the highlight of my day, actually. Mainly because Archie had responded to my frantic phone call with a calm voice and helpful suggestions, interrupted only twice by laughter he didn’t quite manage to suppress.
My meetings with human clients—you know, my real job—hadn’t felt as productive as managing to extract a Pomeranian from a foxhole using nothing but a squeaky toy and some treats.
Ezra pitched me an app that would match people’s biorhythms with their optimal pasta shapes.
Then I had a Skype meeting where I talked a client out of liquidating his entire portfolio to invest in a company that claims to be developing teleportation technology. The pitch deck he showed me had clip art.
Even my meeting with Gus was off. He seemed distracted and was constantly checking his phone, which was weird from a man who once described smartphones as “attention parasites.”
To top off my day, as I was heading home, my sister called, which produced the unique blend of anger, guilt, and exhaustion that only family can.
“My day was fine,” I say as I follow the direction of Archie’s voice.
Archie’s sprawled on the sofa with his leg propped.
He gives me a skeptical look. “You look like someone ran you through a corporate blender and forgot to put the lid on.”
I have to bite back a smile. “Thanks for that observation.”
“I ordered in dinner. I thought you’d be hungry.”
I just stare at him. When is the last time someone did something like this for me? Actually cared about my welfare, anticipated what I might want before I even knew I wanted it?
“Thank you,” I say hoarsely.
Archie meets my gaze. Neither of us blinks. Neither of us looks away.
“You’re welcome.” He’s unexpectedly solemn. He glances away, seeming to force a smile onto his face.
“After all, it’s in my best interest for you to keep your energy up.”
“So what did you order?”
“I found a place that makes authentic soul food, and I ordered chicken and dumplings.”
“Chicken and dumplings is literally my favorite food.”
He gives me a smug smile. “Yeah, I figured that.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You figured out that chicken and dumplings is my favorite food?”
He shrugs. “Your surname is Brennan, which is an Irish name. You grew up in Detroit, which had a high Irish immigration. But there was also a wave of Appalachian migration into Detroit in the 1940s to 1960s, driven by people seeking jobs in the automobile industry. And I’ve noticed that when you’re stressed, your vowels flatten a bit and you occasionally drop a G, which supports the idea of Southern ancestry.
And when you’re ordering Chinese, you get more chicken dishes compared to beef or pork dishes by a ratio of two to one, so I figured chicken and dumplings would be your favorite Appalachian food. ”
I just stare at him for a few heartbeats. What the absolute hell?
“My grandparents were originally from Kentucky before they moved to Detroit,” I say finally. “My grandmother used to make chicken and dumplings all the time.”
Archie gives a triumphant smile. “Thought so.”
“Ah…yeah. You were right. Well done.”
I escape into the kitchen.
Because that’s what it is. Escape. I need some time to remember how my face is supposed to work as I digest what just happened.
The takeaway containers are waiting on the counter, still warm.
The smell hits me again when I peel back the lids. It reminds me of being nine years old, sitting at my grandmother’s table while she told me to sit up straight and eat properly and that I was going to amount to something someday, even if no one else believed it.
I get out a bowl for my food and take longer than necessary to find a spoon.
Because somehow Archie Mansley looked at my surname, my accent, and my Chinese food orders and deduced my favorite food. I don’t know whether to be impressed or unsettled.
Both. Definitely both.
It just continues a trend that I can’t quite get a handle on. I’m supposed to be good at reading people. It’s literally what I do for a living: work out who’s worth betting on and who’s full of shit, what people are hiding behind their smiles.
But Archie’s been running circles around me since day one, and I’m only just starting to see the track marks.
There have been all these snippets that don’t quite add up. The books he reads. The way he keeps solving every mystery we watch together.
And on top of that is the interaction with the dad at the party yesterday.
I’d only witnessed the end of it, but something weird had happened while I was changing.
The guy, whom I’d observed earlier as the living embodiment of “do you know who I am?” was acting almost…deferential to Archie. Which doesn’t make any sense.
I carry my bowl to the sofa.
Archie shifts his cast to make room for me, and I sit closer than I need to. I don’t examine why.
The first bite tastes like a memory I didn’t know I was missing.
“This is really good,” I say.
“I know.” He’s watching me eat with an expression I can’t quite read. “I figured after a long day of meetings you’d need something good to come home to.”
Something good to come home to.
Fuck.
Home.
I don’t want to think about how this sterile apartment has actually started to feel more like home than my apartment in San Francisco.
Because Archie is here.
I’m sure it’s just the novelty of sharing a space with someone. Even if it is someone who spends a lot of their time plotting the optimum way to embarrass me.
And as soon as that thought enters my head, I squint down at the bowl on my lap with different eyes.
“This isn’t laced with laxatives, is it?”
“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that! What a good idea.”
I snap my head up to stare suspiciously at him.
“Oh, relax. We’ve got a party tomorrow, and I’ve got a new costume for you that definitely doesn’t lend itself to frequent restroom visits. I haven’t done anything to the food, I promise.”
I believe him. It probably seems stupid given the prank war we’re currently engaging in, but I know Archie well enough now to tell when Archie is playing versus when he’s being genuine.
I shovel in another mouthful of food.
The dumplings are exactly right. They’re dense and pillowy, not the gluey kind you get at diners that are trying too hard. The broth is the kind of rich that only comes from someone simmering bones for hours.
“So, what’s the new costume you have planned for me?” I ask.
Archie gives me a wicked smile. “How do you feel about Lycra?”
“Strongly opposed.”
“That’s a shame. Because you’re going to be a superhero sidekick tomorrow.”
“Which superhero?”
“That depends. I’ve been trying to decide between Robin and Kato.” He studies me for a moment. “You’ve got the build for either, but Robin requires more acrobatics, and you favor your left shoulder when you’re tired, so Kato’s probably safer.”
I stare at him. “How did you—”
“You always carry the prop bag on your right side, even when your left hand is free. And you rotated it twice during the dinosaur party when you thought no one was looking.” He waves a hand. “Anyway. Kato. Green suit. Very dashing. Minimal tumbling required.”
I don’t know what to say to someone who’s apparently been cataloging my physical limitations while making balloon animals.
As I chew another mouthful of dumplings, I think about a party where Archie and I are dressed up as superheroes, which leads to thoughts about yesterday’s party. About Samuel’s face when he pulled that gold token from the bag.
“You know, you’re kind of a hero to those kids,” I say.
“Ah yes. Captain Giggles. Defender of balloon animals. Scourge of sticky fingers everywhere.”
“I’m serious. Like what you did for Samuel the other day, that’s heroic. It’s something he won’t ever forget.”
Archie hesitates. “I was that kid, you know? I was the kid who was too weird, who stuttered, who other kids avoided. Except no one ever handed me a gold token.”
He picks at a loose thread on the sofa cushion, not meeting my eyes.
“Is that why you’re a children’s entertainer now?”
“I spent my childhood learning every magic trick possible because if you can make people laugh, they won’t notice you don’t have any friends,” he says softly.
For a moment, neither of us says anything. Archie continues to pick at the loose thread on the sofa cushion. He’s wound it around his finger twice now.
“Well,” Archie says. “This got unexpectedly deep for a conversation about Lycra.”
“Just slightly,” I say.
I turn my attention back to my dumplings rather than think too hard about what he just told me.
I can’t help moaning as I scrape the bottom of the bowl.
“Good?”
“You have no idea.”
“Ah, you have a bit of gravy…” Archie touches his lip to show me where. It’s distracting, watching his finger tap against his own mouth.
I swipe at my mouth. Miss, apparently, because Archie shakes his head.
“You’re just making it worse. Hold still.”
He reaches over. His thumb brushes the corner of my mouth.
We both freeze.