Javi, Come Home

CHAPTER EIGHT

     Javi's sitting in the house alone. The sun set early, and it's cloudy out now. He suspects a storm's coming through. The only light is from the reading lamp hanging over the armchair he's curled into. Colleen had packed a decent amount of his books, most of them new, so he's reading Fredrik Backman.

     It's not late when he hears a car outside, suspects its Tate dropping his father off. He's quiet as he listens to the wheels roll to a stop. Against his better judgement, he leans over the arm of the chair and pushes the thin, lace curtain back, peaking out the window.

     Tate has the window open, his arm resting on it, and he's saying something to Oscar as his dad gets out and walks around the car. If they were still friends, Javi would tell Tate that he looks good, that he likes how long his hair is now, and he just, he looks good. He means that but not in a flirty way. In a just is way. He can recognize Tate being handsome without it meaning anything.

     Tate looks over at the window and Javi lets the curtain fall, sitting back, sinking into the chair. His hearts racing and he feels like he was caught doing something more than looking. He counts his breath, slowing down till he's holding it for three seconds at a time.

     He doesn't stop until Oscar's pushing the screen door open and walking in. His head darts toward Javi. "How are you feeling?" he asks.

     Javi breathes. "Better, yeah."

     "Have you eaten?" he asks next.

     "Not since breakfast," he admits.

     "Javi," Oscar reprimands. "You have to eat."

     "I was waiting for you," Javi says quickly. "Dinners ready."

     Oscar tilts his head questioningly. "Dinners ready?"

     "Yeah, I stopped by the grocery store. It's something different. See if you like it."

     Javi had made the infamous feta pasta. He'd spiced it up with some peppers, too, and lots of garlic. His father said garlic was a salve for the blood. He put it on everything.

     The table's set and the dish is in the oven keeping warm. Oscar makes off to the bathroom, cleans himself up, and returns to Javi pouring them glasses of water. "I tried to make sweet tea," he say. "But I botched it."

     "Tate makes good sweet tea," Oscar says. "Makes it like his mother."

     "Is that so?" Javi asks, keeping his tone uninterested.

     He'd wondered how Marg had made that tea in the fridge with her limited mobility. It makes more and less sense that Tate had actually made it. He can't remember Tate doing anything in a kitchen other than eating what was readily available to him as a kid.

     Oscar snickers, says mockingly, "Yes, that's so."

     "Why'd you say it like that?" Javi asks.

     "Like what?" Oscar asks innocently, ringing a napkin out and draping it over his lap. Javi takes the dish out of the oven and places it on the table under an oven mitt to keep it from scorching the table.

     "Like that!" Javi says not being able to explain it just knowing he did say it weirdly, suggestively. Suggesting what, though.

     "Nothing, Javi, nothing," Oscar says and then reaches for the spoon in the pasta, scooping some into his bowl. "What is this? White people food?"

     "It's pasta, dad," Javi says.

     "Where's the red sauce?"

     "The sauce is cheese-based. Feta cheese."