“Charlotte,” he repeats, and it sounds so sweet coming from his mouth. Not at all like the name of a spoiled princess who acts like she knows the world, even when he proves she’s seen so little.
“I like it.” He winks, and it puts me at ease.
We’re outside the park in no time, and he walks me across the street and a couple of blocks down. We stop at a cutesy old building with a tiny front door.
“This is it,” he says, and he pulls his arm out from underneath mine to fish his keys from his pocket. He opens the door and then returns to get me like a real gentleman, pulling me along with him into his house. The hallway is as narrow as the door, but it leads to countless tiny rooms, all with their own purpose. A kitchen, a bathroom, and a living room, and there are even some stairs that lead to an upper floor.
After dropping my shoes on the mat, we go into the kitchen, and he gestures for me to sit down at his hardwood table. He leaves for a few seconds only to come back with a blanket, which he wraps around me. He grabs another chair and sits down in front of me, hoisting my foot up from the floor. I almost tug it back in defense, but his calloused hands on my soft skin are warm and non-threatening. He inspects my ankle and moves my foot around. I bite my lip from the pain.
“Looks like you sprained it a bit,” he says, and he gets up. Walking to his fridge, he takes out a blue hard-plastic ice pack from his freezer, which he wraps in a towel. “Here, put this on your ankle. It’ll reduce the swelling.”
“Thanks,” I say as he hands me the ice pack. “It doesn’t hurt that bad.”
It’s a lie that I make up on the spot so I don’t appear weak. As a homeless girl, being picked up by a stranger isn’t exactly a smart thing to do, so I need to be strong right now. No matter how badly it hurts.
“I’m sure it does,” he says, completely negating what I said.
He starts a pot of coffee and a kettle of water even though I didn’t ask for anything. “Tea or coffee?” he asks. “I always make coffee, but I figured you might want something else. I don’t actually know what Americans drink.” He laughs, and it’s such a genuine, infectious laugh that I can’t help but smile too.
“Tea is good,” I say.
Jesus, could that sound any more ridiculous? I want to slap myself right now.
After grabbing a few plates and bread, he starts placing stuff on the table that I don’t recognize. Boxes filled with all sorts of colored sprinkles, some kind of thinly sliced meats in a box, a long, rectangular dark cake-like thing, and butter. I recognize that. And cheese. But the more he puts on the table, the more confused I get. I don’t want to sound rude by asking, so I pretend I’m familiar and smile at him with ease.
Deion fills two cups with hot water and grabs some tea sachets too, dipping them into the water before bringing the cups to the table. Then he places a knife in front of me. “There you go. Grab whatever you want.”
My eyes fixate on the knife as though it’s some glorious weapon I could steal. It’s been a long time since I last got one without intent, without it signifying some kind of ownership over my soul. Because knives are potential weapons, and Easton knew that all too well, so he always made sure someone kept an eye on me when I held one in my hand.
But not this guy. This guy turns around and walks back to his kitchen sink to grab more stuff he can place on the table like round dried crackers and more otherworldly foods I’ve never seen before. Not once does he look at me with rage with the intent to dominate, or with apprehension over my stronghold over the knife as I clutch it in my hand as though it’s my last lifeline. Not with this guy. I don’t need to.
My grip on the knife loosens, and for the first time in ages, it’s as though an invisible shroud falls off and lightens the load on my shoulders.
Deion sits back down and grabs one of the round dried crackers and smears it with butter, then tosses a bunch of the chocolate sprinkles on top. I’m amazed when he takes a huge bite and grins as he looks my way.
“What?” he says.
He’s always so direct. I’m not sure if he’s offended half the time or if this is how they are around here.
“Nothing.” I shrug.
“Sure, there is. You’re not eating, and you’re gawking at me like I shouldn’t be,” he says.