Page 50 of Duty Preserved

“Okay.”

That was it. No questions. No commentary on the fact that I’d said two rooms like it needed to be a legal declaration. Just okay.

“Since we have some time to kill, how about we grab some food?” He pulled out his phone and scrolled for a minute. “There’s a place not far from here. Good reviews.”

“Sure. Sounds good.” I could totally handle a meal and conversation without embarrassing myself. Hopefully.

Donovan drove the truck to the hotel lot and parked it where he could see it from the street. Then we walked.

Nanyuki moved around us in late golden light, vendors and motorcycles and women carrying things on their heads with a balance I’d never master.

As we walked, Donovan’s arm was close enough that I could feel the heat off his skin.

Did I really want two rooms?

He stopped in front of a restaurant with a wooden door and a sign I couldn’t read from the angle we were standing. Through the window, I could see white tablecloths. Actual cloth napkins. A waiter in a collared shirt.

“No,” I said.

He looked at me.

“I can’t go in there.” I looked down at myself. Field boots, cargo pants, a tank top I’d been wearing since five in the morning. “Look at me.”

His expression shifted quizzically. He put his phone in his pocket. “We don’t have to.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to eat with you.” A rapid-fire over-explanation was about to come out like the word vomit it was. “Fancy just isn’t my thing. I grew up on a farm in Iowa.”

“So what’s your kind of place?”

I looked down the street. A block away I saw a small restaurant with an open front and a long counter facing the street. A woman was grilling meat over charcoal behind it, and a row of people sat on plastic stools eating off paper plates.

“That,” I said pointing to the restaurant.

We crossed the street and took two stools at the counter. Donovan leaned forward and said something to the woman behind the grill. It took me a second to realize it was Swahili.

She giggled and began cooking with a smile. I could only assume it was because she didn’t expect him to speak Swahili.

Neither did I.

“Since when do you speak Swahili?”

“I don’t. Zayn’s been teaching me a few words. I can order food and ask where the bathroom is. After that, I’m useless.”

Of course he was learning the language. Of course he was the kind of man who showed up somewhere and tried to meet it on its own terms.

When the plates came, the food was good and hot. Grilled chicken and ugali, a thick cornmeal cake that came with everything in Kenya, and two cold Cokes in glass bottles.

Donovan ate without performance. No commentary about the plastic stools or the lack of a menu. The ease with which he relaxed made it easier to relax myself. This was easy. This I could do.

“My mom would like this place,” I said. “She always said the best food comes from the smallest kitchens.”

“Yeah? Tell me about her.”

“She raised six kids on a cattle farm in Iowa. She didn’t have a choice about being smart.” I took a drink of my Coke. “Do you have any siblings?”

“Five.”

“Five.” I set down my fork. “Just like me.”