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I edged up to the plates and practically started salivating when I saw the sandwiches she’d made, toasted bread with sliced roast beef, caramelized onion, melted cheese, and pickles on the side.
“These look amazing,” I said, taking my seat on the stool and digging in. As I took my first bite, I tasted the slight heat that sat on my tongue as an undercurrent and turned to her. “You used white buffalo sauce?”
She shrugged. “I tasted it and figured that it would go well with the beef.”
“Are you some kind of genius?”
She grinned at me. “I’m happy you like it.”
We ate for a little while, making small talk about our favorite restaurants and things to make. She told me about the epic failure of a cake she’d made for her mom a few years before, and I told her a little about the skillet cookies I used to make for Patrick for special occasions.
That is, until I realized what I was actually talking about and shut the story down as quickly as I could.
It wasn’t enough to quell her curiosity, though.
“Patrick is your nephew, right?” she asked, her eyes lighting up at the prospect of learning more about me.
I shrugged, picking up the dishes from lunch and taking them over to the sink. “Not biologically. He’s the son of one of my friends in Nashville.”
“Must’ve been good friends if you made him skillet cookies every time he had a soccer game and a bad day and a birthday.”
“I guess.” I couldn’t tell her about Neil and about how he’d been the brother I’d never had. And about Jackie and what a mother hen she was, and how I was the first person they’d told when they found out they were going to have Pat.
“You guess?” I could hear the annoyance in her voice, and I knew I deserved it. It was the perfect opportunity to open up to her about everything.
I turned back to her, shrugging. “Pat’s dad was someone I worked with.”
“He was someone on the force?”
I gave her a curt nod.
“Does he have anything to do with you quitting?”
I swallowed and didn’t answer before I turned away from her and started to rinse off the plates.
I continued until I saw her hand reach around me, shutting off the water. “You know, you can talk to me,” she said softly. “I’ve been told I’m a pretty good listener.”
Again, I didn’t answer as my hands tightened on the edge of the sink.
“Did he die? Is that what’s going on?” Her voice had gone so quiet that I could barely hear her.
I turned back to her and asked her, my voice tight and strangled, “Why are you asking these things?”
“Because I want to know about you. Just in case you hadn’t heard, that’s how it sometimes works when two people start sleeping together.”
I bit down on my lip, unable to say anything back to her. I knew she was right. I knew I needed to say something to her. I knew that the truth I’d been keeping inside me for the last few years about Neil was eating me alive.
She put her hand on mine and folded her fingers under. “Just tell me. Whatever it is, I can handle it.”
“But why would you want to?” I didn’t know where the words were coming from, and I knew they made me a dick, but I couldn’t help myself. “Why would you want to dive into my bullshit? It’s dark, and you’ve already been through enough.”
“One could say the same of you, with you diving into all of my bullshit despite all the shit you’ve been through.” She pulled her hand away from mine and marched away, folding her arms over her chest and looking at me, frustrated. “Oh wait, I can’t say the same. Why? Because you haven’t told me anything about the dark shit in your past. You’re just taking it for granted that I shouldn’t hear about it.”
I knew she was right, knew that she could handle whatever I had to tell her and that I could trust her if she said she could be told.
“This isn’t personal, Macy.”
“It sure as hell feels personal. What am I supposed to feel when you won’t tell me anything about yourself?”
