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“She has an amazing capacity for love,” I remark as we resume our walking, “and I hope I’m not overstepping when I say I think you do too.”
“Thank you,” Rachel’s voice is soft as she responds. “My brand of love isn’t usually well received. I have a tendency to be…”
“Bold.”
“I was going to say pushy,” she gives me the full weight of her smile this time. “I think I like yours better. You’re not so bad, Morrow.”
“You’re not so bad yourself, Winters.”
“You know we can never tell Franny about this, right?” Rachel asks with a laugh.
“It’ll be our secret.”
Stevie leads us around the block until we’re back in my driveway, greeted by Francine at the top of my front porch steps, hands on her hips as she watches us approach. Today she’s in leggings and a Canadian National Team sweatshirt with a tear at the collar betraying the fact that she found it in my closet, her hair piled haphazardly at the back of her head, a few loose curls making their escape.
“Looks like I’m no longer needed,” Rachel steps toward the house, a note of sadness in her voice. “I’ll grab my things and head out.”
“Rachel wait,” I stop her before I think too hard about what I’m doing, “stay for dinner. Hangout for a bit. If you want to.”
Rachel walks up the steps with Stevie, her hand reaching for Francine's, giving a small squeeze, and once Rachel is in the house, the door shut behind her, Francine walks slowly down the steps toward me. Her hands find my waist, and my lips find hers, crashing together as we hold onto each other.
“Good game last night,” she smiles as we break the kiss, one arm wrapped around my waist, her other hand pressed against my chest as she laughs, “I’m a little offended that you spend time in other people’s penalty boxes.”
“Yours is the only one for me, Stats.”
Somehow Rachel and I end up in the kitchen together, working side by side on Francine’s favorite comfort meal: breakfast for dinner. Rachel renders bacon while I scramble eggs, and Stevie settles near Rachel’s feet, no doubt waiting for someone to slip her a bit of food. And Rachel does, setting aside one strip of bacon to cool and carefully crumbling it into small bits. Offering two to Stevie when she thinks I’m not looking. I smile to myself and hope Rachel doesn’t notice that I noticed.
“I have a request.” Francine is seated on the couch after dinner, her leg propped up, Rachel and I on either side of her, her head leaning on Rachel’s shoulder. “Donuts and hockey.”
“You’re not playing hockey!” Rachel says at the same time I respond, “I could go for a donut.”
“So it’s decided,” Francine slowly, carefully, extracts herself from the couch, standing and turning to Rachel and me. “We’re going for donuts.”
“I’m not,” Rachel stands and takes an awkward step toward Francine, “but you two have fun.”
“Are you sure?” Franny asks.
“Positive. I have to go to work early tomorrow. I should head home. You two have fun.”
“Fine. But you’re gonna miss hockey with the guys.”
“You’re introducing Morrow to the guys?” Rachel’s eyes flit to me as a sly smile spreads on her lips. “I’m not missing this.”
It’s a bit of a drive from my house to Donut Worry, but completely worth it. Every time I’ve been in this shop, it’s been busy; regulars gathered around tables, no matter the hour. Tonight, we walk in and wait in a line that stretches right to the door. Donut Worry has been open in Hamtramck since the late sixties, a local staple for autoworkers, staff at the nearby medical centers, and blue collar men and women across the city working all three shifts during the day and night.
These days, they are still open across all shifts, but are closed on Sundays to offer their own staff a chance to rest. Francine makes a beeline for the long table in the middle of the bakery, surrounded tonight by a group of older men and women who greet her with great enthusiasm and insist that she sit down. One of the women stands and arranges a chair so that Francine can elevate her leg, amid Francine’s many protests.
“You’re up,” Rachel’s voice is pitched low behind me. “She’s fine. Gladys will take good care of her, I promise.”
Stepping up to the counter, a familiar face smiles back at me.
“Your usual?” Ursula asks, her eyes tracking, no doubt, to Francine behind me. “Two?”
“That would be great. Thanks Ursula.” With a maple bar and buttermilk glaze in hand, I sit beside Francine and divide eachdonut in half, passing a plate to her and looking up to find every pair of eyes around the table laser-focused on me.
“Francine…” the woman across the table from us sing-songs Francine’s name, a slow smile spreading across her lips, “are you going to introduce us to your friend?”
“Why would I do that Gladys? You all know Rachel.” Francine looks at me with a glint in her eye as Rachel takes the empty seat at the end of the table, placing a coffee cup in front of Francine as she does. Francine brings the cup to her lips, sipping at the foam atop the latte before gently setting the cup down on the table and angling her body toward me. “But this is Stefan.”
