Page 19 of The Fix-Up

“Thank you.” He unfolded his napkin, placed it on his lap, and took a bite of his breakfast, seemingly uninterested in me.

I should walk away. There was plenty to do but I was curious about him. The two of us were strangers and yet our lives were entwined in ways neither of us had expected. Like that red string of fate people talked about. Although in our case, the silver duct tape of destiny might be more appropriate.

“How can you possibly enjoy eating oatmeal like that?” I blurted.

He shrugged. “It’s oatmeal.”

I pressed my palms onto the edge of the counter. “I think it’s one of the signs of being a psychopath. You know, right after lacking empathy, or something.”

Spoon inches from his mouth, he paused. “It’s just how I eat it.”

“Fascinating,” I said. “So, do you go by Gil?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Not even when you were a kid?”

He sighed. “No.”

“You look like a Gil.” Whatever that meant. He didn’t look much older than me, even though he gave off much older energy. He probably owned a grandpa sweater somewhere. And not ironically. “Can I call you Gil?”

“No.”

I decided then and there to always call him Gil. “How old are you?”

His spoon clinked against the side of his bowl when he set it down and crossed his arms, glaring at me like a ticked-off teacher. Which, I’m not going to lie, was a look I saw often in my younger years. “Thirty-one. Why?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess it seemed like something people who own a house together should know about each other.”

“We aren’t going to know each other for long,” he said.

I held my hands out and took a step back. “I guess I can put ‘sensitive about his name’ on the list after psychopath.”

“What list?”

“The list of things I know about you.”

His head tilted. “Are you really keeping a list?”

“Yes. Though it’s a very short list right now.” And for the record, there was a list. Because I liked lists. And sticky notes. I just lost the lists. A lot.

With a shake of his head, he picked his spoon back up. “Any more questions?”

Yes, about a million. “I’ll let you get back to eating, Gil.”

He scowled. “Gilbert.”

“Sure thing.” I gave him a syrup-y sweet smile and walked away. But I could feel his eyes following me the entire way back to the kitchen.

The rest of the morning sped by. By the time we flipped the sign to CLOSED, I was wiped out and I still needed to get a head start on the baking for tomorrow.

But first, it was Tuesday, and I was expecting a visitor.

After Jorge and Iris left and before I had to get Oliver from the bus stop, I gathered up all the leftovers and day-old goods and a few extras I collected during the last week—canned tuna fish, peanut butter crackers, cheese sticks. I packed it all together in a box with a few bottles of water and this week, a new toothbrush and toothpaste I’d picked up from the store a couple of days ago. The knock on the back door came around three.

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