Chapter 4 #2
"Thank Christ you showed up. I tried being a hero after you left—thought I'd fix myself something to eat.
Big mistake. My back seized up again and I fumbled my damn phone.
Now it's somewhere in kitchen Narnia while I'm marooned here with this ice pack.
Was seriously wondering how I'd survive without Uber Eats for the foreseeable future.
And, well, with the phone on the floor somewhere and me stuck here, how the hell would I summon Uber Eats?
I was faced with starving to death." She sighs dramatically.
"Had to call in reinforcements at the shop too.
Some agency's sending over a temp artist named Blade.
I mean, seriously? Blade? Might as well name yourself 'Needle' or 'Ink.
' Anyway, looks like I'm on extended vacation whether I like it or not.”
I shake my head. "No way. Forget Uber Eats. Let me get you real groceries. Just tell me what you want." My hands are already itching to help, to fix, to provide. It's my default setting—caretaking. "Actually, I'll order from Instacart. That way I don't have to leave you here alone again."
"My notebook," she says, wincing as she shifts position. "Get it from the spare bedroom. It's next to my sketchbook."
I duck into the first bedroom, finding only rumpled sheets on an unmade bed.
"Not that one!" Tally calls out. "The other spare!"
In the second bedroom, I spot her notebook on a small table, but freeze mid-reach.
The space around me is transformed by color and form—watercolor landscapes capturing impossible light, their sunset hues bleeding into cerulean skies above jagged mountain silhouettes.
A collection of small marble figures crowds the windowsill, each no larger than my palm: a dancer with one leg extended in an arabesque so delicate the stone seems flexible; a falcon with individually carved feathers poised for flight; a child's face with eyelashes so fine they cast hairline shadows.
The walls themselves are a riot of framed sketches—hands in various poses, eyes with different expressions, the curve of a shoulder rendered in charcoal.
I've stumbled into her secret gallery, a hidden chamber of her soul.
And all around are watercolors of a woman who looks much like Tally, but older and sadder.
In one, she sits at a weathered kitchen table, her fingers curled around a chipped blue mug, steam rising in ghostly wisps.
In another, she stands at a window, her silhouette backlit by a pale winter sun, one hand pressed against the frosted glass.
The third shows her asleep in an armchair, a book fallen open on her lap, reading glasses dangling from fingertips.
I gasp at how Tally has captured this woman—the same green-blue eyes, the same straight raven hair now threaded with silver, but with crow's feet etched deep at the corners and a downward tilt to her mouth that speaks of years of disappointment.
Something shifts inside me. This isn't just a hookup anymore.
I'm standing in the presence of someone whose soul bleeds onto canvas, and I'm desperate to understand the woman behind the brush.
I bring the notebook out and Tally narrows her eyes at me. "Took you long enough. What, were you checking out Marisa in there?"
"Marisa?"
"That's my mother. Well, sometimes she's 'Mom,' sometimes she's 'Marisa,' and sometimes she's 'hey bitch.
'" A half-smile flickers across her face.
"Depends on where we stand. 'Mom' is when I’m worried about her, 'Marisa' is when I'm pissed, and 'hey bitch' is for when we're actually tight.
" Her arms fold tight across her chest. "Today? Definitely Marisa."
"What happened?"
She looks away with a shrug. "Called her after you left.
Needed help getting around. She had 'plans.
'" Tally makes air quotes with her fingers, then swipes quickly at her eye. "Translation: she’s in some new dude’s bed, and I'm SOL.
Classic Marisa—always ditching me for whatever rando she thinks might be her Prince Charming this week.
Never mind that they all ghost her faster than a heart attack.
But hey—" her voice catches, "—at least someone's getting a happy ending. "
I can't help but smile. Looks like we both got dealt a bad hand in the parent department. Dad chose Jack Daniels over his family for two decades straight. I wonder if her father was in the picture at all.
"Dad caught a bullet in Iraq," Tally says, like she's plucking the question straight from my head.
“Died when I was 4, but I never really knew him because he was deployed for years.” Her eyes narrow, jaw tightening.
"You know what kills me? Those suits in Washington throwing around words like 'casualties' and 'collateral damage.
' That was my father. A real person." She traces a finger along the rim of her glass.
"Mom was apparently fine before. After he died... opioids were the only thing that could make her forget.”
The parallels hit me like a punch. My mother died, dad drowned himself in whiskey. Her dad died, mom disappeared into Oxy. Difference is, my brothers and I landed with loaded grandparents who could handle raising eight rowdy boys. Tally clearly wasn't so lucky.
"Your mom was using?" I ask carefully.
"Yeah." She shrugs like we're discussing the weather.
"I got real good at the foster care shuffle.
Mom would clean up just long enough to convince a judge she was mother-of-the-year material.
Two weeks later, she'd be tweaking in the cereal aisle at Ralph's.
" Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Eventually I kept a go-bag under my bed.
You learn to see the signs." Then she shakes her head.
“Look at me, oversharing. I blame the good shit painkillers.”
I inhale deeply. "We're not that different, you and me. We both lost a parent to grief. My dad drowned his sorrows in whiskey and vanished for two decades. Your mom..."
"Yeah," she cuts me off. "Except you got a silver spoon to suck on while daddy dearest was checking out. In the game of who got the shittiest end of the stick, trust fund boy doesn't win. Nice try, though."
I give a slow nod. "Pain doesn't check your bank account before it moves in."
She tilts her head, conceding. "Touché. Now hand over that notebook so I can list what I eat. Word is you're some kind of kitchen wizard."
That makes me laugh. I'm no Gordon Ramsay, but I can handle myself in the kitchen.
Sunday mornings are sacred—just me, a mug of dark roast, and whatever chef is demonstrating knife skills on TV.
My cookbooks are all dog-eared and annotated.
There's something meditative about the steady rhythm of a knife against a cutting board—it quiets my mind the same way playing Chopin does, or filling journal pages with verses no one will ever see.
Roman teases me about being the "sensitive Kensington," but I stopped being offended years ago my brothers’ ribbing.
My masculinity doesn't need defending just because my Spotify lacks Slayer.
Tally scrawls her food preferences on the notepad I hand her.
Pizza tops her list, followed by various proteins—chicken, seafood, tofu.
No beef or pork. Raw onions are apparently her nemesis.
I nod, mentally cataloging ingredients while tapping out an Instacart order.
Once that's done, I join her on the sofa and lift one of her feet onto my lap.
"Delivery's on the way," I say, pressing my thumbs into her arch.
"I'm guessing you wouldn't mind a massage? "
Her eyes roll back as her lids fall shut.
"Jesus Christ, yes," she hisses through clenched teeth.
"Even better than what you did to me earlier.
" The corner of her mouth curls into something dangerous.
"Other men attack that like they're defusing a bomb with oven mitts, but you.
.." She arches her back, a small moan escaping her throat.
"Your hands should be registered as lethal weapons. "
I feel my pulse hammering in my throat. Tonight, there'll be no stopping at my just pleasuring her. The heat in her eyes when she looks at me is unmistakable—scorching, demanding. And I'm already burning to give her exactly what she needs. For medical purposes, of course.
For thirty minutes, I work Tally's feet with practiced hands, drawing out those little groans that tell me I'm hitting the right spots.
Her head falls back against the cushions.
I know exactly where to press to ease tension—a skill that beats most painkillers, though not quite as effective as an orgasm.
That'll come later. Right now, I'm focused on the delicate arch of her foot, the curve of her heel, each toe getting individual attention as I knead and press with just the right pressure.
Back when Alecia carried Steph, I'd studied foot reflexology to help with her pregnancy discomfort.
Turns out the human foot is like a control panel for the whole body—press here for back pain, there for headaches.
There's a knock at the door—the Instacart delivery I ordered.
I haul in bag after bag of groceries and head straight for the kitchen.
When I open Tally's freezer, I'm greeted by a sad army of frozen dinners standing at attention—Lean Cuisines, Amy's, Bellisio's, Stouffer's, Marie Callender's.
The fridge isn't much better: a lonely six-pack of Heineken and some bottled water. That's it.