then snatches it from me and sticks it in the fruit drawer. “Time you and the kid ate some healthy food.”
“Who the hell do you think you are?”
He shrugs and keeps unpacking. “Are you going to stand there and rake me with your eyes or are you going to help?”
I grit my teeth and start sticking groceries into the fridge. He starts rearranging them.
“Milk goes on the left.”
“In my house, milk goes on the right.”
He stands to his full height and looks down at me. “Heathen,” he whispers, then reaches in and shoves the milk to the left hand side of the shelf.
“These are all raw ingredients. What do you expect me to do with this, spend hours every night cooking a--”
Just then, Carrie appears in the kitchen. “I’m done with my homework.” She stops in her tracks and cranes up to look at Wright.
“Whoa,” she whispers.
“Hey, kid.”
“Are you going to make dinner again?”
“No, he’s not. We’re having mac and cheese and Salisbury steak.”
“Awww.”
“Don’t aww me, young lady.”
“Salisbury steak sucks.”
“This does,” Wright says, shaking the box. “I’ll make you the real thing, kid. I got all the stuff here. Do what I tell you.”
“Yes, sir,” she says.
“Okay, get me the big frying pan, and…”
“Excuse me,” I cut in. “This is my kitchen.” I put my hands on my hips, stare up at him and glare.
“You are so cute when you’re angry,” he tells me.
“Carrie, get the pan out like he said and work on putting this stuff away. I need to talk to Mr. Wright on the back porch. Follow me.”
I storm outside onto my back deck and wait for him. He steps out, ducking a little as he passes under the door frame and stands next to me with his hands in his pockets.
“So--”
“Don’t you ever pull that ‘cute when you’re angry’ shit on me, you prick. Ever, do you understand?”
“What?”
“Look at me. Look. At. Me.”
He looks me in the eye and I flinch. Why is my vision blurring?
“I have to deal with that all day from the rest of the department and the whole goddamn town. Do you think you were clever with the stripper joke? I’ve heard that one a dozen times. Half the people I pull over try to flirt with me and the other half laugh at me. I’m a big joke all around, do you understand?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I don’t care what you meant. I want somebody to take me seriously. Give me a little respect. Just a little. I have to claw my way through every day just to get back here and have some time with my little girl. I don’t want you ruining it.”
“Hey,” he says. His big hands shoot out and his fingers close around my upper arms. Jesus, his hands are so enormous, he can close them around my biceps. I suck in air and it turns into a snort.
“Don’t cry.”
“I’m not crying!”
“Yeah, you’re not. I’m saying don’t start.”
I push his hands down my arms and off me. When they brush my skin, it’s like an electric current running through my flesh. His hands are rough, his palms calloused and coarse from lifting weights. Mine are the same, toughed by scrubbing dishes and gripping the knurling on my chin-up bar.
I used to have soft hands. I used to have a soft me.
“You, okay?”
Even though I despise myself for it, I rub my eyes with my hand. The back of my wrist comes away a little wet with tears.
“What are you doing this for? What do you want?”
He shrugs. “I told you. I want to make up for what I did.”
“You are. You’re coaching the games. You don’t have to be my butler.”
“I’m trying to take a burden off you. Like you said, I don’t have anything better to do.”
“Yes, but you don’t have to make it up to me. That’s what I’m trying to say.”
“Yes, I do.”
I fold my arms over my chest and give him an arched eyebrow. Carrie calls it my Mommy Eyebrow.
“Why?”
“‘Cause I don’t give a shit about the ticket. Or the car, they can keep
“Who the hell do you think you are?”
He shrugs and keeps unpacking. “Are you going to stand there and rake me with your eyes or are you going to help?”
I grit my teeth and start sticking groceries into the fridge. He starts rearranging them.
“Milk goes on the left.”
“In my house, milk goes on the right.”
He stands to his full height and looks down at me. “Heathen,” he whispers, then reaches in and shoves the milk to the left hand side of the shelf.
“These are all raw ingredients. What do you expect me to do with this, spend hours every night cooking a--”
Just then, Carrie appears in the kitchen. “I’m done with my homework.” She stops in her tracks and cranes up to look at Wright.
“Whoa,” she whispers.
“Hey, kid.”
“Are you going to make dinner again?”
“No, he’s not. We’re having mac and cheese and Salisbury steak.”
“Awww.”
“Don’t aww me, young lady.”
“Salisbury steak sucks.”
“This does,” Wright says, shaking the box. “I’ll make you the real thing, kid. I got all the stuff here. Do what I tell you.”
“Yes, sir,” she says.
“Okay, get me the big frying pan, and…”
“Excuse me,” I cut in. “This is my kitchen.” I put my hands on my hips, stare up at him and glare.
“You are so cute when you’re angry,” he tells me.
“Carrie, get the pan out like he said and work on putting this stuff away. I need to talk to Mr. Wright on the back porch. Follow me.”
I storm outside onto my back deck and wait for him. He steps out, ducking a little as he passes under the door frame and stands next to me with his hands in his pockets.
“So--”
“Don’t you ever pull that ‘cute when you’re angry’ shit on me, you prick. Ever, do you understand?”
“What?”
“Look at me. Look. At. Me.”
He looks me in the eye and I flinch. Why is my vision blurring?
“I have to deal with that all day from the rest of the department and the whole goddamn town. Do you think you were clever with the stripper joke? I’ve heard that one a dozen times. Half the people I pull over try to flirt with me and the other half laugh at me. I’m a big joke all around, do you understand?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I don’t care what you meant. I want somebody to take me seriously. Give me a little respect. Just a little. I have to claw my way through every day just to get back here and have some time with my little girl. I don’t want you ruining it.”
“Hey,” he says. His big hands shoot out and his fingers close around my upper arms. Jesus, his hands are so enormous, he can close them around my biceps. I suck in air and it turns into a snort.
“Don’t cry.”
“I’m not crying!”
“Yeah, you’re not. I’m saying don’t start.”
I push his hands down my arms and off me. When they brush my skin, it’s like an electric current running through my flesh. His hands are rough, his palms calloused and coarse from lifting weights. Mine are the same, toughed by scrubbing dishes and gripping the knurling on my chin-up bar.
I used to have soft hands. I used to have a soft me.
“You, okay?”
Even though I despise myself for it, I rub my eyes with my hand. The back of my wrist comes away a little wet with tears.
“What are you doing this for? What do you want?”
He shrugs. “I told you. I want to make up for what I did.”
“You are. You’re coaching the games. You don’t have to be my butler.”
“I’m trying to take a burden off you. Like you said, I don’t have anything better to do.”
“Yes, but you don’t have to make it up to me. That’s what I’m trying to say.”
“Yes, I do.”
I fold my arms over my chest and give him an arched eyebrow. Carrie calls it my Mommy Eyebrow.
“Why?”
“‘Cause I don’t give a shit about the ticket. Or the car, they can keep
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