FLIPPING OFF THE LIGHT in the bathroom, I make my way down the hall, my bare feet slapping against the old hardwood. I suspect its original to the house that has to have been built around the turn of the century. The thick trim, small, oddly-shaped rooms, are nothing like the houses I’ve lived in before.
Running my hand down the wall that was outfitted with a disastrously awful deep green and burgundy wallpaper, I see the holes and marks from the things that hung there previously. Some of them Delaney’s.
I glance in her room as I pass, a heap of newspapers and leftover boxes in the middle of the floor. I asked her to leave them since I’ll be moving soon. Still, the sight of them sitting where her bed used to sit, where we used to hang out with our laptops and build designs and dreams, makes my loneliness grow.
“This is good for me,” I tell myself, shutting Delaney’s door. “You’ve never lived alone. This will build character.” Pivoting to my right, I see the half-emptied living room and frown. “Ugh. I have enough character.”
My stomach rumbles, but most of the kitchen stuff was Delaney’s and I don’t have the energy to go figure out something to make with the little I have on hand. The idea of eating alone depresses me, a side effect of being a twin and from a large family, always having someone around in my formative years.
I flop onto the sofa, the one piece of furniture besides my bed that remains. Flip-flopping between going to sleep and going for takeout, I’m undecided when the doorbell rings.
My phone in one hand, a baseball bat in the other, I lament the fact that the door doesn’t have a peephole. “Who is it?” I call.
“It’s me.”
“Walker?”
“Do you have other men swinging by at night?”
Grinning ear-to-ear, I set the phone and bat down and fiddle with both locks. It seems to take forever before I’m able to pull the door open and let my eyes rest on him.
He’s dressed in a pair of jeans, a black shirt with blue writing, and a black hat. In his hand is a brown plastic bag.
“Hey,” I say, rocking to my heels. “What are you doing here?”
“Well, Nana called and had me come over to check her oil. The warning light went on which means she could’ve waited until tomorrow, but . . .”
“But Nana’s not waiting.”
He grins. “Exactly. And she really shouldn’t have to. It took fifteen minutes.” Raising the bag, he shrugs. “And she made dinner.”
“Of course she did,” I say, stepping to the side and letting him in. “Don’t mind the mess. Or lack of furniture. I’m kind of using this as a bachelor pad, I guess.”
He doesn’t blink at the reference, just looks around. “I think I’d know this was your place.”
“Oh, God, I hope not,” I laugh. “It’s awful. There’s so much I’d do to it if I were staying here.”
“So you’re not?” He looks at me, the bag crunching in his fingers.
“I mean if I were staying in this house permanently. No, I can’t see having a family here someday.”
“I see what you mean.”
“What would make you think this was mine?”
He walks to the mantle, glancing over the pictures and figurines that are set off-kilter from having been moved when Delaney was taking her stuff. “It feels like you.”
“I was just thinking how lonely it feels in here.”
“I get that. But I’m talking about the pillows on the couch and picture frames and that blanket over there. It’s all very particular. Pretty. Clean.”
“You just like me for my organizational skills, don’t you?” My stomach growls, reminding me I didn’t figure out dinner. “I hope you plan on sharing that food because there’s little chance you make it out of here alive with it.”
“Actually,” he says, shifting on his feet, “I was hoping you hadn’t eaten yet.”
“Wanna eat with me?” I ask, probably a little too excited for the cause but uncaring because this kills two, maybe even three, birds with one stone.
He heads to the coffee table and plops the bag on top. “We have cheeseburger casserole. Does that work for you?”
“Um,” I say, shrugging. “I’ve never had it.”
“You’ve never had it? Ever?”
“Never. What is it?”
“Perfection.” He slips two Styrofoam containers from the bag and places them on the coffee table. Fishing around again, he retrieves two plastic forks and holds them up. “If you have drinks, we’re good to go.”
“I think I have something . . .” Making a face, I flash him a finger indicating to hang on and disappear into the kitchen. Popping open the refrigerator, I do a quick inventory. One small chocolate milk, three bottles of water, and two bottles of wine. “Ah!”
“Like wine much?”
Giggling, I lean back into his shoulder. “Not really. That was Delaney’s. She must’ve forgotten it.”
“You have no root beer.”
“Is that what you like?” I ask, inhaling his cologne.
“Yup. But I guess it’s water tonight. Unless you think wine and cheeseburger casserole is a good pair?”
I could stand here all night with no food and no drink, just leaning against Walker. “I don’t know what it tastes like, so maybe we should stick with water?”
He buries his head in my hair. His hands cinch at my waist as I hold my breath and wait to see what he does. I exhale when he gently shoves away. “Water it is. Let’s go.”
Grabbing all three bottles, I kick the door shut and follow him back to the living room. He gets settled on one end of the couch and I on the other.
“I grew up eating this,” he says, offering me a container. “It’s hamburger, cheese, onion, biscuits . . . I don’t know what else. But this is my ultimate comfort food.”
Laughing, I take the container and pop it open. Scents of the hot meal waft through the air, making my stomach rumble harder. “I love that you used the words ‘comfort food.’”
“Nah, Nana said that earlier. I just repeated it.”
“Figures,” I say, lifting a forkful of the casserole to my lips. Blowing softly, the motion catching Walker’s attention, I wrap my lips around the end of the fork and slowly pull it out of my mouth. His eyes go wide ever-so-slightly as I lose myself in the taste of home-cooked food. “Oh my gosh.”
“I hope it’s half as good for you as this is for me.”
“I can taste the onions and cheese and the sweetness from the biscuits,” I groan, taking another bite. “This is delicious.”
The garlic is subtle, a hint of pepper and a dash of heat that makes me wonder if she used hot sauce, I fall back on the couch cushion and savor it. Closing my eyes, the flavors remind me of my mother, the scents the same that fill the Farm when we all congregate for dinner.
When I open my eyes, Walker hasn’t taken a bite. “What?” I ask, swallowing.
“Nothing.” He swipes a forkful of casserole and shoves it into his mouth.
“You did that so you didn’t have to talk to me.”
He makes a face, stopping only to fill his mouth again.
“I guess I’ll have to keep talking and then you will have a laundry list of things to answer when you stop eating,” I shrug smugly.
Looking alarmed, he washes down his food with half a bottle of water. “I’m done. No need to back me up until tomorrow.”
“That’s what I thought,” I giggle, dragging the fork through the food. “I’m happy you came over here.”
“I was in town.”
“Walker Gibson, you were not,” I laugh. “Nana lives in the country. There’s an entire town between her house and here.”
“So?”
“So just admit you wanted to come see me,” I say, setting my container on the coffee table.
“I . . . might have . . .” he says, messing with me.
“I . . . might have . . .” I mock, standing up. “Had a date tonight.”
He sweeps me off my feet, settling me on his lap before I can stop him. Laughing as I get situated cross-ways over his body, I gaze up in to his face.
“Did you?” he asks.
“Did I what?”
“Did you have a date?” He peers down, a crinkle in his forehead, as he searches me for something that convinces him I’m telling the truth.
“If you consider a date with the drive-thru guy a date, then possibly,” I wink.
He rests back, one hand flat against my stomach. I’m not sure he even knows he’s doing it. It’s like he’s subconsciously asking me not to get up. I hate to tell him, but I’m perfectly comfortable right where I’m at.
“Pie or cake?” he asks out of nowhere.
I want to ask why he’s asking me such randomness, but I don’t want to spoil whatever it is he’s thinking. “Pie.”
“Pepper or salt?”
“Salt bloats. Pepper.”
“Television or movies?”
“Depends who I’m with,” I say, taunting him.
“Me?”
“Movies.”
“Why?”
Clenching my stomach, his fingers flexing against me as I do, my brain immediately goes to the gutter. “They take longer. More cuddle time.”
“You want to cuddle with me?” he asks carefully.
“Depends.”
“On what?” he says, fighting a smile.
“Casserole or cobbler?”
His eyes light up. “Cobbler.”
“But I thought cheeseburger casserole was your favorite comfort food?”
“Have you ever had cobbler?” he deadpans.
“Fair enough. Plane or truck?”
“Depends on where I’m going.”
“Can you just answer a freaking question?” I laugh.
He laughs, taking off his hat. Running a hand through his hair, I can’t help but notice how relaxed he looks. “Why do you dye your hair purple?”
“I don’t know,” I say, lifting a strand of colored locks. “Do you not like it?”
“I love it. I just wonder why purple?” He takes the strands from me and slips them between his fingers.
My heart falls a bit as I remember Carrie’s face. “I had a friend in California. She was twenty-four and diagnosed with pancreatic cancer,” I say softly. “It’s a fatal disease and she passed away only nine months after she found out. She was so free-spirited and beautiful and kind and everything good. Purple is the color of that ribbon, so sometimes I just feel like it honors her in the dumbest way.” I feel my face flush. “That seems so stupid, doesn’t it?”
Instead of laughing or agreeing or ignoring the crack in my voice, he hugs me into his chest and holds me against him. I feel him press a soft kiss to the top of my head. There’s something about the gesture, the super sweet way he holds me. There’s nothing sexual about it, no overtones or indications this is anything but a man sensing my broken heart and wanting to try to ease it somehow.
We sit quietly on the sofa, wrapped in each other’s arms. He draws small pictures on my side from the tip of my sweatpants to just beneath my bra. I can’t tell what they are, but I love the way they feel.
“I didn’t realize how much you love baseball,” he says, the swirls stopping.
“What makes you say that?”
“The thing with Daisy and then there’s an Arrows blanket over there and you knew a lot about baseball with Machlan and Lance. You had an Arrows shirt on today too.”
“Very perceptive,” I say, sitting up and stretching. “I really don’t love baseball, but I was an Arrows fan.”
“Was? Not anymore?”
Climbing off his lap, I start gathering our containers and putting them back into the bag. Chewing my bottom lip, trying to decide how to tell him Lincoln is my brother, I move to the other side of the coffee table.
I’ve never been in this situation before. Everyone in Savannah knows who my family is. My friends in California knew too. It’s not that it’s a big deal to me, but sometimes other people think it is and that makes things awkward. I don’t want to do anything to destroy this serenity with Walker, but I can’t lie to him either.
So, I go for nonchalance.
“My brother doesn’t play for them anymore,” I shrug, turning away towards the kitchen. “I don’t have to like them now.”
“Your brother what?” There’s a tinge of disbelief on the end of the question, a rasp to his voice that makes me recenter before speaking or turning around.
After a deep breath, I explain. “My brother, Lincoln, played centerfield for them. I had to like them. Family rules.”
Stopping and looking over my shoulder, I see Walker lean forward and balance his elbows on his knees. “Your brother is Lincoln Landry?”
“Yup.”
“The Lincoln Landry?”
“The one and only,” I say with a shrug. “I told you my last name.”
“Yeah,” he scoffs. “But I had no idea that you were from that family.”
“That family is my family. It’s not a big deal.”
“So, that makes your other brother a senator or something?”
“Governor. For now,” I add. “He’s not running for reelection, so that’s about over.”
“That’s a big deal. I . . .” He shakes his head, like he can’t make sense of what I’m saying. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Resting the bag of trash on a stack of boxes near the doorway, I take a deep breath. “Would it have mattered?”
He ponders this, his eyes kind of glassing over as he lets this marinate. Finally, after what feels like a hundred years, he flips his gaze back to me again. “I guess not. But I wouldn’t have fed you cheeseburger casserole, for fuck’s sake.”
“Why not?” I laugh. “It was amazing. Is there anything Nana can’t make?”
“No,” he agrees. “But you could’ve had . . .” He shakes his head again, harder this time. “You’ve been cleaning my fucking office and you’re practically royalty.”
“Oh, I am not,” I huff. “That’s tabloid bullshit.”
“I’m a little shocked, okay?” he laughs. “This does explain a lot.”
“Like what?”
“Like you just paying for MaryAnn and Dave’s cars like it was nothing,” he says slowly. “You could’ve just bought them new ones.”
“I couldn’t because Graham would ask way too many questions,” I laugh. “But, yes, now you see why I didn’t want you calling the police on me over Daisy. It could’ve been a big deal.”
He nods, standing up. Wiping his palms down his jeans, he takes a deep, labored breath.
“This doesn’t change anything,” I tell him, panic starting to seep in my tone. “I just wanted to be honest.”
“I’m glad you did. Honesty is the best policy, huh?”
Even though he’s the one who said it, I have concerns that maybe he doesn’t necessarily prescribe to that theory. There’s a niggle in my stomach that worries me.
“I always go for honesty,” I say. “So you can say goodnight or we can watch a movie. But I’m not discussing the Landry thing anymore.”
“Good. Because I don’t want to discuss it either. Let’s go get some root beer and come back and watch a movie. That is, if you want to cuddle.”
“Are you any good at cuddling?”
His eyes darken. “I’ll let you be the judge of that.”