8. Chapter 8 #2
Ever since I made the stir-fry, I’ve been cooking dinner every night.
It’s become sort of a routine, if you can call it that after only four days.
But it’s been the same each time. At some point after the sun goes down, I leave Rosie to her work and go make us dinner.
We eat together at the island, then have the leftovers for lunch the next day.
“I think you’ve been deprived of actual food for too long,” I tell her.
She chuckles. “You’re probably right. A frozen pot pie can really hit the spot if you’re starving, though.”
“Frozen pot pies never hit the spot.”
“I think you’re wrong about that,” she says.
“Do you want more?” I ask, my eyes darting to the empty plate and then back to her.
She rubs her stomach. “I think I’d better stop now. I’ve still got more work to do tonight.”
“Right,” I say. “We’ve got to hang the curtains.”
“And not with hot glue.”
I shake my head. “Definitely not.”
The hot glue has become a joke between us. We’ve both used it often, but not enough that it’s gotten old.
“I don’t know if I’ve said thank you enough for helping me this weekend.”
She definitely has. At least a dozen times.
I lift a shoulder. “It’s been good to have something to keep me busy. I don’t mind it.”
“So, you don’t have any work to do for your consulting business right now?”
“I took the month off,” I say. “I have a contract with a company in Manhattan starting in October.”
“Is it weird traveling so much for work? When do you ever get to go home?”
I stare at her, my eyes focusing on the way her brows pinch when she’s curious about something.
“Oh no. I’ve said something wrong. You’re doing the straight line of disapproval again.” She points to my mouth.
“What?” I ask her, not following.
“Your lips,” she says. “They pull into a straight line when you don’t approve of something.”
I touch my lips with my fingers, confused. “I . . . they do?”
Her cheeks turn the lightest color of pink. “I’m sorry,” she says, her words tinged with a nervous-sounding laugh. “I’ve said too much. Just pretend I didn’t say that.”
“I can’t now,” I tell her. “Apparently I’ve got some disappointed expression I had no idea I was making.”
Here I thought I was good at schooling my expressions. It turns out I’m just putting it all out there for everyone to see. Or maybe it’s just Rosie that would pick up on it.
“Disapproval. It’s the straight line of disa—you know what? I’m just going to shut up now.” The color on her cheeks deepens.
“I don’t disapprove of the question, though. I was just figuring out how to answer it.”
“Oh?” she asks, her eyebrows moving up her forehead as if to say go on.
“I don’t really have a place I call home,” I tell her. “I had an apartment in Boston, but I was never there, so I got rid of it and put my stuff in storage.”
“And you’re okay with that? Not having a home?”
I chuckle. “It sounds bad when you say it, but it’s been fine. I travel so much for work that I don’t really need a place.”
“But you don’t have a home base. Not even wherever your family is?”
“I only have my mom, and she moves around a lot.” And she’s currently on her way to the desert, which she hates. I don’t say that part, though. It’s not a straightforward story.
“What about your dad?”
“He’s around somewhere. I never knew him,” I tell her. “He was out of the picture before I was even born, according to my mom, and I haven’t bothered trying to find him.”
Rosie’s doing the brow-pinching thing again. I can see how this would be strange to her, with her family all so close, all living in the same town and going to football games together. This town will always be home to her because of that.
“But you do have a farm,” she finally says.
I nod. That’s another complicated story.
I do own a farm. That’s true. But I also have no idea what I’m going to do with it. And without my grandparents there, it doesn’t feel like a home.
“I guess you had a farm,” she says. “The raccoons own it now.”
I chuckle, and she smiles. “That’s true.”
“Maybe you could make your home with them? Create some boundaries with the raccoons? Learn to live together peacefully?”
“I don’t think raccoons are capable of that,” I say.
“You’re probably right,” she says, looking down at her hands folded in her lap before looking back up at me. “Where do you plan to go tomorrow, now that your week is up?”
“Tomorrow?”
I do the math and realize she’s right. It’s Monday, which means tomorrow it will be a week. I hadn’t even been counting, which isn’t like me. I always count.
Except . . . I didn’t. Somehow this week got away from me, and I didn’t even notice.
I should tell her I’ll figure it out. It’s the easiest answer, and it’s the truth. I’m sure I can find a room in Burlington at this point. Driving back and forth would be a pain, but I could manage it.
But . . . that’s not what comes out of my mouth.
“I was going to ask if I could stay,” I hear myself say. “For the month, like I booked originally. I can’t do much on the farm until the raccoons are out, but I’d rather not do the drive from Burlington every day if I don’t have to.”
This is the truth, of course. But it’s not the whole of it, and I know it. I like it here. The thought of leaving isn’t something I want to do. Which is . . . odd, and I’m not sure I want to think too hard about it.
“Really?” Rosie asks, her face lighting up. “Yes. Of course you can absolutely—”
“Rosie,” I say, cutting her off. “Don’t say yes unless you really mean it.”
I know she can say no to a picture, but when it comes to someone else and their needs, she doesn’t. At least not from what I’ve seen. I don’t want this to be an obligatory yes from her.
“I do mean it, though.”
I shake my head. “You didn’t even think about it.”
“I didn’t need to,” she says. “Of course you can stay. You’ve been so helpful.
You cook and you helped me with the—” She stops.
“That came out wrong. I don’t mean you have to keep doing those things.
You could never lift a finger again and I’d—” She presses her lips together.
“I’d like you to stay. That’s what I’m trying to say. ”
“Do you need to check your calendar and make sure you have the availability?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “It’s free and clear until October.”
“Oh, but wait.” She rubs her forehead with her hand.
“I opened up the calendar after you left, just in case, and I did have someone book one night on the twelfth. So, that’s a problem.
” She nibbles her lip, looking to the side.
“But wait . . . the Cinderella room is nearly done, so they can go there. Problem solved. The room is yours.”
Hearing Rosie’s thoughts in real time is a fascinating thing. I don’t know if I’ve ever met someone who thinks out loud as much as she does.
“Alright,” I say. “Then I’ll stay.”