Page 16 of Someone Like Me
I doubt it, but Drew seems to like it.
Drew Moroux is a big guy. And those coveralls don’t really cover all that much. He’s in amazing shape. That much is obvious. And he’s aptly named. He’s masculine and then some.
Which is why when he closed his eyes just now and moaned over the taste of my zucchini bread, I had to stifle a giggle. It was just so cute.
I want to know more about him.
Like does he like all sweets or just spice breads? Why do the coveralls sayDannyinstead ofDrew?And why did he say that about his name? About Drew being the name of someone whodeservedeight years behind bars?
But I don’t get the chance to ask any of this because he’s gone too quickly.
Once the door shuts behind him, I turn and face Mrs. Vivian, who’s smiling like she’s in on a secret. I blink and smile back.
“I think he liked the bread,” she sayssotto voce.
I laugh. “It’s my mom’s recipe.”
Mrs. Vivian narrows her smiling eyes. “I’m pretty sure your mama is still halfway across the world, right?”
“That’s right. She won’t be back until December.”
“Mmm-hmm,” she says with a nod. “Thought so. So why are you letting her take credit for the quality of your baking?”
A nervous laugh escapes me. “I’m not,” I deny.
Mrs. Vivian turns the flame down on her smothered pork chops before she crosses her arms and eyes me. She nods her head toward the door where Drew just left. “That boy is having a hard time of it — even after eight years of hard time — and in the thirty seconds he was scarfing down your zucchini bread, it looked like he got to forget about all that.” Mrs. Vivian clucks her tongue. “You, young lady, did that. Not your far-flung mama.”
I smile, conceding victory. Who am I to argue with Mrs. Vivian Quincy? Besides, what she says and the gratitude I see in her eyes makes me feel as though I’ve atoned for my prying. “Fair enough,” I say, peeking at the cinnamon apples she asked me to stir. They look so good. Gooey and golden brown. I’ll have to try making them myself.
“Would you like to stay for dinner?”
I snap my gaze up at her. “Oh, thanks, but I have a class tonight.” As good as the apples look — and smell — I wouldn’t accept even if I were free. Because, judging from my brief encounter with him, I don’t think her grandson would really want me to join. “In fact, I really should be going.”
“Another time then,” Mrs. Vivian says, shuffling toward me before hugging my neck. “It’s nice to have young people around.”
The plump softness of her embrace reminds me of childhood and safety. Both of my grandmother’s are gone, and I haven’t hugged my own mother in months, so I cherish the feeling.
“It’s always nice to see you, Mrs. Vivian.”
My yoga-in-the-park class is small, but satisfying. I have two repeat customers and two newbies who both take my card, so I drive home wreathed in peace and grateful for the day’s events. I pull into the driveway and see that Tori is home, but I’m not going to let that weigh down my fluffy mood.
And as luck would have it, when I step into the kitchen, the air still redolent with the scent of zucchini bread, I find it empty, but as I reach the top of the stairs, intent on grabbing a shower before fixing some dinner, I freeze outside of Tori’s bedroom door.
Because I hear her crying.
At once, I raise my fist to knock, but I hold myself back before my knuckles meet wood. I know my sister, and she won’t like me knowing she’s upset. Tori hates being vulnerable. I want to find out what’s wrong, and I want to ask how I can help, but my intrusion now will only make things worse.
As quietly as I can, I step back from the door and close myself behind my own.
Ten minutes later, after I’ve showered and wrapped my hair in a towel, I find a text on my phone.
Tori: Mom called. She wants you to Skype.
My blood ices over. Is something wrong? It’s almost two in the morning in Nigeria. Something’s wrong. Is this why Tori was crying? If Mom wants me to call her this late, then something must have happened to Dad, and it’s then that I notice the missed call on my phone from Mom.
“Oh shit.”
I dart around my room, tripping my way into underwear, tugging a stubborn racerback bra over my still damp skin. I throw on a top and shimmy into one of my many yoga lounge pants, open up my laptop and mistyped my password twice before I force myself to go still. I close my eyes and take a full, slow, deep breath. My exhale is shaky, but at least the breath has quieted my racing mind.
