Alright inner voice, it’s your time to come through. Remind me what a good friend Kyra has been to me so I don’t fall in love with her Dad tonight. Inner voice, you there?
Marie interrupts us by announcing that dinner is ready. A welcome interruption, if you ask me, because I really did not feel like explaining why my mother hadn’t contacted me in over a year. She was likely in jail for something.
In fact, the weekend I came to the university, I had to take the bus because she was locked up. She called me to bail her out but her bail was set so high, it would’ve wiped my savings. I know, it sounds awful but you know what? I was tired of bailing her out, giving her part of my paycheck, never having her around, raising myself-all of it. I got on the bus and haven’t looked back since. Yes, perhaps not the most flattering of dinner conversations.
Owen pulls my chair out for me and I sit. He settles in across from me. I look around the massive dining room. The walls are a rich dark gray color cut in half by icy white wainscoting. The crown molding is the largest I’ve seen and a huge chandelier hangs over the 12-foot-long black table. Windows line one of the walls and big patterned curtains fall in loose waves down until they bunch on the floor. Outside the windows is part of the back yard-a large rectangular pool with seemingly no end on one edge is visible.
“This is really an amazing home,” my voice is full of amazement which I cannot disguise. This is literally the nicest home I’ve ever been in or seen, for that matter.
“Thank you,” he says his arms folded across his chest, his eyes furtively sizing me up.
Marie puts a copper charging plate down and tops it with a large white porcelain plate. On it is a mass of food. It looks like chicken with some vegetables in some sort of boozy smelling sauce. It looks TREMENDOUS. She puts down a bowl of crispy bread with thick, knotted crust. I’m anxious to dig in, I haven’t eaten since lunch where I’d bought a $1 hotdog from the cart outside the office.
“Thank you so much, Marie.” I say, pulling my napkin off the table and putting it in my lap. She nods and smiles.
“You are welcome, sweet girl.” She scurries off, humming the same song from earlier. I would love Marie, I think, if I got to know her.
“Do you want to know what it is?” Owen asks me, slowly unfolding his napkin and placing it in his lap, smoothing it down carefully. Shit. I must seem to have no manners to him. My belly rumbles audibly and he gives me a stern look. Is he mad? I’m not sure.
“Yes,” I say, smiling.
“Eat,” he motions to his plate as he says it. “Eat and I’ll tell you.” He probably heard my stomach growl. I cringe a little.
I pick up my fork and take my first bite. Oh my God. I look at Owen, my eyes big and my brows raised. He laughs, a real laugh from the belly, and takes a bite of his own.
“Mmmm hmmm,” he groans jokingly. After he swallows his food, he says “Coq au Vin.”
Now it is my turn to repeat him.
“Coq au Vin.”
I furrow my brows. The name means nothing to me. I swallow my third bite, realizing that I am eating too fast for mixed company.
“What’s in it? It’s so good! It’s the best thing that I’ve ever eaten. Ever!” I take another bite. Marie comes in with two wine glasses and an open bottle of Red that Owen has clearly chosen.
“Pancetta! Do you know what that is, my girl?” Marie pours wine in my glass is slides it to me, walking behind me to go to Owen. I shake my head.
“Very good bacon!” she laughs.
“Oh bacon! I like bacon I think!” I grin, and continue eating.
“Chicken, vegetables, red wine, cognac, lots of good things. But the pancetta, muah!” she puts her fingers to her lips and kisses them. Owen smiles. A real, showing teeth, I’m happy, this is nice type of smile. Warmth and electricity ripple through me. My panties are clinging to my mound.
The vegetables are so tender and yet they still have texture, the chicken is flavorful and moist and there’s a rich flavor binding it all together-is that the cognac? What exactly is cognac? It’s so good. I pull a piece of bread from the bowl and drag it through the burgundy juices, not wanting to waste a single bite. As I chew through my first piece of bread I stop and look at Owen. He’s watching me, pensively, while slowly making his way through his plate of food. I set my bread down. His eyes are full, round, a look of sadness suddenly fills them. Oh no, my table manners. I set the bread down on the edge of my plate and wipe my mouth with the crisp napkin.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly, “my table manners are so poor right now.”
“I don’t think any of your manners-table or otherwise-are poor. Can I ask you something? And please, if I overstep, you can tell me. And if you don’t want to answer, you can tell me that, too.”
He pushes back from the table gently and crosses his arms over his chest for a moment before reaching for his wine and taking a long pull. His hair is dry now and, in this light, I can see that it is gingerly peppered with the beginning of gray. It’s thick and full and I can see if he let it get any longer, it would be full of body. I think of Kyra’s hair while I gaze at him. I nod yes.
“Do you make enough money at your part time job to support all your needs?”
Eloquent, the way the tough question rolls off his tongue. It’s nonaggressive and non-offensive, coming from a place of kindness and the way he’s swathed it in care lessens the embarrassment that I feel. I know what he is asking is the tough, sensitive question which is: do you go hungry?
I’ve eaten this meal with such urgency-and every other meal I’ve had at Kyra’s house-that he sees it isn’t just an isolated handful of events. He sees it is something continual and deep rooted. I don’t want to lie to him but I also don’t want to be pitied. A good relationship is never born from pity, is it? Inner voice, is it? Damn she must be on break.
I pause for a moment with my eyes fixed down on the plate. Take a breath. Tell the truth. Even if it’s pathetic and walks the line of humiliation, honesty is far sexier than ego.
I look up, he is looking at me and his wine glass is down. He’s leaning in slightly and I can see anxiousness in his face. He awaiting my response, nervously. My thighs burn. I feel my nipples stiffen against my cotton tshirt.
“I believe you are asking me if I eat regularly. Or rather, can I afford to eat regularly.”
He cocks his head to one side, the anxiousness not fading from his face as he gives me one solitary nod.
“I’m on a full-ride scholarship until I graduate. But I am expected to pay for extra books and supplies. I save my money first and foremost for school-related things, then rent and bills, and lastly, food. I don’t starve. I mean, there are days where I wish…” I feel my voice break slightly as I tread through these rough waters. I’m realizing as I tell Owen this that I’m actually quite sad and embarrassed. I’ve always managed to stuff those feelings down and carry on but now it’s hitting me that… I wish I had more. I really do. I clear my throat, blinking away the tears forming behind my eyes.
“There are days I wish I could eat more. But I always manage lunch and dinner. You know, they should pay ice cream scoopers more,” I smile, trying to lighten the mood. It is heavy.
It is extra heavy to a person like Owen whose daughter has so much stuff that she doesn’t even know what she has, to people that have a woman living at their home just so she can serve them food and clean up after them.
My needs are basic and primal and the idea that they aren’t always met is something dark to Owen. And would be to Kyra, too, if she knew. But I’ve lived with it forever. It’s normal to me. Sadly.
He doesn’t return my smile nor does he allow me to make light of it. Instead, he motions Marie from the doorway and gives her a silent nod. I’ve noticed they have an unspoken way of communicating, as if she reads his mind or something. Years or living together, perhaps. Marie comes to my side and plates me up another serving of the delish, rich dish.
Greedily, I grab the fork and then freeze and look across the table at Owen, who’s eyes are twinkling under the chandelier light as the sun sets through the windows across from him.
“Please,” he motions, realizing I am asking him if it is okay for me to continue eating.
When I finish, I see that Owen has watched me eat. He is sipping his wine, watching me.
I give my mouth a final pat with the fancy napkin before taking a sip of the red wine in front of me. It is bitter but eases my nerves and so I sip it again, and again.
“Please don’t tell Kyra about this conversation. I don’t want her feeling like she needs to do or, or be anything. She’s so generous already and I don’t need help, really.”
I don’t know what I expect his response to be but what he says surprises me.
“Will you let me help you? Kyra doesn’t have to know.”
His voice is wracked with something I can’t decipher. Is it stress? Care?
My diaphragm stills, my brain goes tingly and there’s suddenly a loud thudding in my ears. Is that my heart? I drape a hand across my chest and feel myself breathing heavy. Inhale. Exhale. Pull your shit together because he is watching you.
“You don’t even know me. You don’t have to help me. I don’t need help,” the words come out almost callous and cool and I didn’t know my reaction was so strong. I don’t want to be viewed as someone’s good deed or charity case. No, no, especially not Owen.
Fine, I’ve built a fantasy in my mind that he is somehow interested in me. I’ll let go of that. But what I won’t do is take any attention I can get, even if it’s pity. No, I’d rather have nothing. My face burns with anger and embarrassment, both directed to myself.
“Elizabeth,” my name under his accent makes me dizzy. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Of course, you can do it on your own. I mean, look, you have.”
He’s trying to right the situation. He doesn’t want me upset.
“And I think I do know you,” he says, his voice quiet and gentle.
A hurricane couldn’t break the intense gaze we are sharing. But Marie manages. She enters and clears our plates, squeezing my shoulder as she skirts behind me.
“Did you enjoy it, my girl?” I nod yes, still not looking away from Owen.
“Thank you for the dinner, it was lovely. Truly lovely,” smiling, I stand up from the table. The wine has made me heady and I’m nervous for what I may say or do if I stay. “Mr. Bolling, thank you for dinner.”
He stands and follows me out of the dining room through the kitchen where we stand at the base of the stairwell.
“You can call me Owen,” he says quietly, tucking his hands into the pockets of his pants. I am frozen in my spot at the foot of the stairs, and he smiles, slips past me, heading up.
“Goodnight, Owen,” I say, my voice low and needy.
He stops on the stairwell.
He does not turn around but he says quietly, “Goodnight, Elizabeth” and he continues up.