Page 20 of The Bright Side of Brooding
We all chuckled. I resisted the urge to raise my brows atfriends for over a decade. So, not his date? Reynolds struck me as a man who’d shout it loud and proud if this woman was his in any way, for now or forever, and he’d said friends. Well, again, good for him for having someone who’d known him so long and stuck around.
Right on time, a cruel flip of sadness caught in my throat. I cleared it, then said, “Pleasure,” so I didn’t come off rude. Despite some opinions to the contrary, I didn’t try to come off as a jerk. I did, however, have one of those faces that, when I wasn’t actively smiling, evidently came off like I thought I was better than people. “You’ve got to smile so people get to know who’s in there.”Gran’s admonishment applied just as well now as it did two decades ago after my parents died and I’d started at a new school.
“You’re here. Good work,” Rob Waverly said, a cheerful pat on my back.
I nodded. “Made the long trek.”
He laughed, and we walked farther into the house. I took in every detail—the white couch and the cozy chair, a wall lined with bookshelves filled with cookbooks, the small touches that brought warmth to the room like a nice rug, a shelf with a candle. Stuffshe’dchosen for the space, so it made me want to get closer and memorize it. Also, if I looked at her stuff, I could escape some of the small talk.
I started at the bookshelves since reading the spines of books was less invasive than sniffing candles or even taking a seat in the well-worn chair before I’d even seen the hostess. Speaking of, I’d heard her say, “Dinner’s in five, just give me a minute!” from the kitchen when someone walked in there, so I wouldn’t intrude on her now.
Even though I desperately wanted to see her. I’d had more than one daydream about what she looked like in her kitchen. Did she keep it meticulous or make a huge mess? Did she wear an apron? I didn’t know the womanat all, but the last few weeks had built a need in me to know her.Curiosity.When was the last time I’d been curious about someone? So long. And that interest had been a beautiful distraction from the loss that clung to me most days.
Plus, my last letter had put me out there in a way I hadn’t planned on but couldn’t resist. Now she knew I thought of her, at least beyond just what she could cook for me.
I left my post at the shelves and wandered to the dining room, an intermediate space filled with a large buffet on one side, a huge table with chairs around it, and a doorway into the kitchen. I walked to the far wall so I could see the back of her—a knot at her waist and her back revealed the answer to that question: she did wear aprons. Her long golden hair swirled neatly high on the back of her head, leaving the long line of her neck unobstructed except for the apron tie.
The strangest impulse to pull at the ribbons and undo the knot flashed through my mind.
“Please have a seat,” she said, whirling around with a spoon in her hand. Her gaze slipped over me in one quick beat, then met mine before she turned again to grab something.
My heart raced in my chest, the visual contact with her as good as any HIIT work. This kept happening—the rush just looking at her. It felt like… living.
“Sit over here by me, Masters.” Rob pulled a chair out next to him, near the middle of the table. It seated ten and would be full tonight.
I sat, realizing I knew every person in the room to some degree or another. Rob, obviously, Major Reynolds and Ariel, two other officers from OPFOR and their wives, and Summer. One seat left across the table at the right of the head for one last guest.
Just then, Summer walked out with Mr. Meier, our elderly neighbor, at her arm. She held him firmly, then released as he slid into the seat, gently patting his back as he settled. When she slipped back into the kitchen, I studied my plate.
Something about her gentleness with the neighbor struck me just below the ribs, my breath now coming up short. The care she showed the man, even the way she held his arm, shot me straight back to Gran’s caregivers. I’d idealized those people as angels with no hint of humor—their jobs a kind of service few could understand and no one could repay. Seeing her treat him with the same concern cut through more than one layer of incredulity about her I’d harbored.
I’d wondered if Summer was a superficially nice person. Did she do all this for some kind of odd show? But that moment, more than anything I’d seen from her, told me no. She was actually this caring and kind.
“Please forgive me for being a minute late. I had technical difficulties. Tonight, we have roasted lemon chicken, roasted root vegetables, a winter greens salad, and of course, something sweet for dessert. Please enjoy!”
Immediately, exclamations of how good everything looked came from every corner of the table. I stared at the food—the stuff itself and the presentation on the platters—and permitted myself a glance at the chef.
She now held a tray of food near Mr. Meier, and he scooped roasted vegetables onto his plate. Her eyes flickered up to mine, and the moment they met, my stomach dropped.
She was pretty. So damn pretty, and nice, and she could cook.
What is this? Some kind of 1950s fantasy? Get some food!
Gran’s sarcastic, grounding voice pulled me out of the dreamy moment and shoved me back squarely into reality. Miraculously, the heady grief that normally followed such a moment didn’t come.
Rob started talking about the last two weeks of training before competition. Luckily, we didn’t have a rotation until after the trip. Nate and Ariel sat across from me and asked questions about training, most of which Rob answered. He made an excellent date.
He laughed and talked with Summer, too, and the dawning realization that he might actually beherdate struck me cold in the sternum. He sat at her left side. They chatted easily, laughing and clearly comfortable with one another.
Good for him. Good forher, for that matter. Even if the sight and the news made the very thin threads of hope I hadn’t fully realized I’d spun snap, good for them.
