Key To Your Heart

6

Lisa

"I told you I'll eat anything." On a stool at the kitchen counter, Lucy is absorbed in reading a book. She doesn't bother looking up to answer my question about her dinner preferences. She just keeps reading. While I flail around trying to find out what she likes to eat so I can make it for her.

We just tried calling her mom at the treatment center, but Rachel wasn't available, and it took the wind out of her sails-even if she won't admit it. She's trying to be cool, but I can tell she misses her mom, and I don't blame her at all.

That's why I'm trying to make it better.

"If I could cook you anything in the world, what would you pick?" I try to clarify my question as I stare into the refrigerator. Admittedly, not everything in the world is in here. But if she would tell me what she actually likes, I could try something similar. I mean, shit. I could have it brought in.

"Anything." I see her shrug out of the corner of my eye and wonder if this is how I was growing up. I'd know if I bothered to tell my family about this situation. My mom, my dad, my big-mouth sister. They'd all have something to say about it. I'm sure they'd all have good advice too. But they'd also come with criticisms. I worry they'll tell me I shouldn't have done this with Lucy. That it was impulsive. That I'm putting myself at financial risk. That I'm under no obligation to help in this situation.

And they'd be right. But the truth is, I'm feeling startlingly protective of Lucy.

Any critical comment or advice that I do less than I already am could make me go borderline feral. Like full mama bear mode. And it's an unfamiliar feeling. One I'm still grappling with. One that's keeping me from seeking outside advice.

"So, frog legs?"

Her eyes pop up over the top of the book. "Sure."
"Liver?"

"I love it."

"Caviar?"

"Your rich kid is showing."

Fuck me, that was funny. I wipe a hand across my mouth to hide my smirk.

"Hot dogs?"

She gives me a confused look. "You know, that's actually the most offensive food on that list. Do you have any idea what's in them?"

I reach into the fridge and inspect the package. "Meat trimmings."

Lucy just nods. But she's finally not ignoring me for whatever Stephen King horror shit she's reading in an attempt to be as anti-stereotypical as possible.

"Are they less offensive if we roast them over a fire?"

For a moment, her eyes light up before she goes back to trying to look cool and unaffected. "Do you have stuff for s'mores?"

I'm a thirty-two-year-old bachelorette workaholic. Of course I don't have stuff for s'mores. But I only say, "I don't."

She probably thinks she's unreadable, but I don't miss the way her shoulders fall.

"I can go grab the ingredients."

"No. It's fine. Hot dogs on a fire sound great. I'll go grab a sweater."

After she stomps up the stairs, I get to problem-solving. Because if that girl wants s'mores, she's going to have them.

A quick swipe across my phone's screen pulls up Rosie's contact information, and I hit call.

"I knew you were stalking me," she answers.

I roll my eyes, standing in my big, empty kitchen, and cut to the chase. "Do you have the stuff to make s'mores?"