Page 42 of Cross Checked
“Thank you,” I said, quieter than I meant to, but he heard it anyway. Cade seemed like the kind of man who would hear me through all the noise even when there wasn’t any.
“You’re welcome, Pip.”
I should have corrected him. I really should have. Instead, I rolled my eyes and picked up my coffee.
His smile made me feel seen in a way I wasn’t sure I could survive.
By the time we packed the potatoes and stepped out into the warm Michigan afternoon with coffee still on my tongue, Cade Mercer’s laugh playing somewhere in the back of my mind, and one small moth marble tucked safely inside my bag, I knew two things with absolute certainty.
The project was going to be incredible, and I was in so much trouble.
6
Cade
By the fourth Sunday, I knew three things with absolute certainty. Daniel Bennett should not be allowed near an open flame without municipal supervision.
Bliss lied with her right hand in her pocket.
And Luke Dempsey smiled too much when people were watching.
The first thing had been easy to learn. Daniel had burned chicken so thoroughly my first Sunday at the Bennett house that even Ryker, who looked like the kind of man who would eat drywall if his father served it, had stared at the grill in silence for a full three seconds before saying, “Dad, that bird died twice.”
Daniel had pointed his tongs at him and called it “char.”
Bliss had whispered, “It’s okay. We survive on sides.”
She’d said it like a joke, but I had watched her fill her plate with potatoes, pasta salad, and one roll, then push the blackened chicken around like rearranging the evidence of a crime scene.
The second Sunday, I brought Chinese food to her apartment before dinner.
She’d opened the door, seen the bag in my hand, and narrowed her eyes. “Tell me you did not bring emergency food.”
“I brought strategic carbohydrates.”
“My dad will be offended.”
“Your dad served poultry ash last week, Pip. I’m protecting the project.”
“You’re protecting yourself.”
“Also true.”
She’d laughed, and I’d pretended the sound didn’t rearrange something behind my ribs.
By the third Sunday, the routine had become ridiculous enough to be dangerous. I showed up early. Bliss pretended she was surprised. We drank coffee, made potatoes, argued about whether Detroit sports loyalty counted as a character flaw, and ate whatever food I brought before going to her father’s house, where we both acted like we had not already had dinner like criminals.
By the fourth Sunday, I knew her Chinese order, her coffee order, the drawer where she kept foil, the fact that she hated when people chopped potatoes unevenly, and the exact look she gave me when I reached over her for the baking pans.
I also knew she checked her phone more before Sunday dinner than she did any other time.
That part wasn’t a joke.
That part lived under everything else.
It was in the shift of her shoulders when her dad texted. In the way her mouth stayed bright while her eyes got quieter. In the way her fingers kept finding the pocket of whatever she was wearing, curling around her marble hidden there like she needed proof of herself before walking into a house full of people who loved her.
The first time I noticed, I told myself it was none of my business. The second time, I stopped believing that.
