Page 100 of Bitter’s Sweet

I sit at the table and watch him cook.

Actual cook this time.

Sauce from a jar, yes, but he adds garlic, pepper, something spicy, and ground beef he thaws with the impatience of a man personally offended by ice.

I heat things with confidence.

Liar.

He can take care of himself.

He seems determined to take care of me too.

That thought slides in soft and dangerous.

While the pasta boils, he sets my mother’s picture on the table beside me.

I look at it, then at him.

“You left it by the bed.”

“I know.”

“You looked for it twice this morning.”

I swallow. “You noticed.”

“I notice you.”

There is no flirt in it.

That makes it worse.

I touch the edge of the frame. Mama smiles from behind the glass, young and pretty and tired in a way I understand better now. She died before I figured out how many things I should have asked her.

That is the cruelty of mothers. They leave behind answers you did not know you needed.

“She would have liked this place.”

“The apartment?”

“The school. Mercy. Maybe the rooster.” I smile faintly. “She loved strange things. Said normal was just boring with witnesses.”

“Smart woman.”

“She was.”

Bitter sets the spoon down. “Razor know about her?”

I tense.

He sees it immediately. “Not pushing. Asking because if he knows what matters to you, he’ll use it.”

I look at the picture. “Yes. He knows.”

“Then we keep it somewhere he can’t reach.”

“My mama’s picture?”