"You want to sit down?" he asks.
I shake my head and lean in a little closer.
He pulls me tighter. Wraps one hand around me. Brings the other to the back of my head. Runs his fingers through my hair.
It's soft, gentle, caring.
I want that.
Not with Chase. Not exactly.
I miss that. The love, connection, closeness.
The safety.
But that was an illusion. There is no safety. This isn't safe. This is the most dangerous thing I've ever done.
"You can talk if you want." His fingers brush my back. "You don't have to. But you can."
"I… I think I'm hungry."
His chuckle is low. "You're hungry crying?"
"No, it just… it can't be helping." I force myself to step backward. It's so cold, letting go of him. So empty. But that's a good sign. That's a warning. I'm getting too close. Too comfortable.
"I can make something else."
"No. I want this. It was the first thing Quyen taught me to make. The first time I tasted it, it was like home."
"I get that."
"I'd forgotten about that. When my mom was here… every day, I felt that. She always kissed us goodbye, sat with us at dinner, tucked us in at night. Even when I was ten, when I insisted I was too old for that, she came in to wish me good night." I wipe tears with my thumb. "She filled the world with so much love."
"I wish I'd known her better."
"Me too." Something catches on my lips. Something hot and salty. A tear. "She liked you."
"I'm sorry."
"Why?"
"That she's gone."
I've heard that so many times. It never felt like more than a platitude. But this… I don't know. "I miss her. I miss talking about her. Ever since she died… I blocked out those memories. I hate that."
"Sometimes it hurts too much."
I don't know what to say, so I nod. I take a seat. Let Chase bring dinner to the table.
He pours waters, brings silverware and napkins and sriracha, sits with me. "Thank you."
"For?"
"Making this."
"You did a lot."
"With your help." His fingers brush the back of my hand. "I wish I had more thanI'm sorry. The first time I thought my mom was gone… fuck, it killed me."