Emily clutches my hand. “We can go to the shelter now.”
My cheeks burn hot, and I avoid eye contact until he invites us to stay for supper. I can’t remember the last time we had a true home-cooked meal. Damon might just be offering, but not actually want us to stay. It’s the polite thing to do when you have guests show up around dinnertime. Or at least that’s what my mom always used to say.
“Can we?” Emily asks, tugging on my blouse.
My stomach rumbles and answers for me, causing me to blush. I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Food has been the last thing on my mind. I’ve been more focused on figuring out how to get through the next few weeks.
“If you show me where the stuff is, we’ll set the dinner table.”
He points to the far cabinet, and when I open it, I notice some china inside on the top shelf. Why would a man have china? Is it his mother’s? I grab three plates and set the table.
Afterward, Emily goes back into the kitchen to observe him cook. He drags over a chair so she can relax on the counter and watch.
“Have you ever helped someone make dinner before?” he asks.
“Mama doesn’t let me. It’s dangerous.”
“Well, maybe, this one time... she’ll trust us. I won’t let you get hurt. I’m your hero after all.”
His eyes flick over to me as Emily sits on the counter helping him prepare dinner. First, he puts the chicken in the oven to bake it while the water is waiting to boil, and then he puts the pasta in. They both watch the water bubble, and they stir it every couple of minutes as they wait for it to be done.
“Now for the sauce,” Damon says, unsealing the jar and dumping it into the pan.
Emily is savoring every minute. Usually, it’s just me and her, so it’s nice to watch her interact with someone new.
Once they’re done, we each carry a dish to the table and take our seats.
“Ladies first,” Damon says, prompting us to make our plates.
Emily doesn’t waste any time, stacking the pasta on her plate while licking her lips. She chuckles and then digs in, shoveling it into her mouth.
“Slow down, sweetie. We don’t want you to choke,” Damon says.
The last time I had chicken alfredo was when my father was still alive. It’s not a meal I can afford to splurge on. Yes, the meal probably only costs eight dollars to make between the pasta, chicken breast, and sauce, but that’s a lot when you only have fifty dollars to buy groceries for a week. Living paycheck to paycheck isn’t pleasant, and sometimes we fall short with just enough for bare essentials. We spend many nights eating ramen noodles or chili with crackers. Anything to scrape by until my next paycheck comes in. I hate that we have to eat such unhealthy food, but it’s what I can afford, and it keeps us fed throughout the week.
As I enjoy my meal, my eyes dance around to look at him without being so obvious. Of course, I remember him from the grocery store, a regular customer. Although, I haven’t seen him since he knocked over that display.
He isn’t a bad-looking man at all, with a distinguished jaw, almost chiseled to excellence, and the five-o’clock shadow. Let’s just say he’s way out of my league. I’ve had a crush on him since the first time he came into the grocery store. Of course, I’ve never mentioned it, because why would he want a woman like me? Plus, there’s my rule about not dating firefighters or police officers. The chances of them dying on the job are too high, and I never want Emily to go through the pain and suffering that I did when I lost my father to his job.
I can remember it clearly, the day my father died.
It was only a few days after my sixth birthday when he leaned down to give me a kiss before heading out the door to the fire station. When the phone buzzed just a couple of hours later, my mom fell to the floor, weeping frantically. When I asked her what was wrong, she didn’t answer. Her eyes just scanned over me. Of course, I was too young to notice the signs of grief and loss then. For two hours, I remained on the floor next to her, my head on her chest, trying to calm her down, but nothing worked.
The buzzer went off, and I dashed to the door, opening it to a man in Daddy’s uniform. “Can I help you, sir?”
He knelt down. “Is your mommy here?”
She paused behind me. “What now?”
They made some sort of eye contact and she asked me to go to my room for a minute. I obliged, but I left the door open so I could hear.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry for your loss. We wanted you to know, he died a hero, trying to save a family from the fire, but he didn’t make it out in time. If there’s anything we can do at the station to help you, please reach out to us.”
That day followed me for years. Being so young, knowing my father was never coming back home, killed me. All the father-daughter dances I missed or parent-teacher conferences held where they would ask if both parents were coming. Every time it hits just as hard as the first.
“Who’s the pretty woman on the wall?” Emily points.
A choking sound comes from Damon. “That’s my late wife.”