Page 50 of Someone Like Me
“Despite appearances,” I reassure, “it’s really good.”
He narrows his eyes just slightly. “Do you… do you eat the white stuff?” He looks embarrassed, uncertain, and for the world, I would not laugh at him.
“The rind. Yes, you eat it. Here.” I pick up an apple slice and top it with a creamy wedge of camembert. The walk outside and the time out of the cooler has left it gooey and irresistable. I bite half of the little stack, the tart crispness of the apple with the creamy, earthiness of the cheese is sinfully delicious.
“Mmmm.”
Drew’s eyes widen, and he looks between me and the cheese. “That good?”
“That good,” I answer with my mouthful.
“What do I have to lose?” he mutters, taking a piece of apple and following my lead. As soon as he bites down through the cheese and its tougher rind, he frowns. But as he chews, the frown morphs from one of suspicion to one of concentration.
A short noise of surprise leaves his throat. “Thatisgood.”
And at his words, I beam.
“Try it on a cracker,” I say, layering cheese on a townhouse wafer before handing it to him. If he’d let me, I’d feed him, but I know he wouldn’t let me.
Still, this is the most fun I’ve had in months.
“God, it’s like butter,” he says, smacking his lips.
“I know, right?”
I go to open the orange marmalade because the combination of cracker, cheese, and bitter orange is going to blow his mind. But the lid won’t budge. I struggle for a moment, twisting the base and the lid with no results.
“Here, hand it over,” he says.
I could just as easily tap the lid with the butt of the knife, and it would pop open with a good, stiff turn. But why would I do that when I have a chance to watch Drew work with those hands? So I give it to him, and my only complaint is that the show is over too quickly. The instant he has it by both ends, the lid gives a satisfying pop, and the orange marmalade is free.
He watches with interest as I spread it on a cracker before dressing it with cheese. I hand the bite to him.
“Your life will never be the same.”
Smirking, he takes the treat from me and pops the whole thing in his mouth. I watch. One bite. Two bites. Then he closes his eyes and sighs.
“I didn’t even think I liked orange marmalade,” he says almost reverently.
I giggle.
He opens his eyes, looks at me, and then sweeps his gaze around his one-room apartment. “This is the first time I’ve actually enjoyed being in here.”
Laughter dries up in my throat. “Why?” My shock is unmistakable. “Why haven’t you enjoyed being here?”
He takes a deep breath and lets it go in a jagged sigh. “It was my grandfather’s.” A lost look comes over his eyes. “He died not long after I went inside. Cancer. The last time I saw him, I was being sentenced.”
His shame is a tangible thing. It’s so painful, my own gut twists with it. So I let myself feel it, like the edge of a pose, difficult and uncomfortable. Maybe if I share it, his burden will be lessened.
And then again, maybe it’s something he can let go.
“Do you think he was ashamed of you?” I ask evenly, my voice soft but steady.
Drew looks at me, shocked. “H-how could he not be?”
I let the question echo around the room.
“I mean,” Drew continues. “I was a felon who cost him the life of his grandson.”
