Page 22 of The Bright Side of Brooding
“Thanks, Summer! This was amazing!”
“I loved that so much, I’ll be thinking about it all week.”
“You should open a restaurant. Thanks for the invite.”
The friendly farewells gave me soul-deep satisfaction. I’d been helpless to feed myself at times, and I certainly hadn’t been any help to my family in that regard. As an adult, I found myself driven to feed others. These feast nights were an outlet for that need, and I relished them. I did my best to clean as I cooked, but the cleanup was always significant. I used the time to review the meal, the conversations with people, and simply come down from the high of hosting. This became a habit early in my military career—I used my own dinner cleanup to calm down and refocus on the day. Plus, there was no room for disorder in the cramped exam rooms of a military clinic, so orderliness at work naturally translated at home.
After everyone had left—and only a little disappointment Nick hadn’t popped in to say something—I wiped my hands and leaned out of the kitchen to check on Mr. Meier. I expected to see the usual sight—the old man sitting and quietly sipping tea. What I found sent my pulse into a tripping sprint.
“Oh, hi,” I said to Nick, completely inarticulate in the face of him still at my table.
“I’ll walk Herr Meier home when he’s ready.”
“I normally do that.”
It may have even sounded weirdly defensive. Not that I thought he was suggesting I wouldn’t. I just… he made me…
“I’m sure you do. But you’re cleaning up, and it’d be my pleasure.”
He pinned me with a look that said a handful of things at once, just like he’d done that first time he’d answered his door.
“Okay. Is that all right with you, Mr. Meier?”
The gent nodded. If Nick was a man of few words, Meier was one of none. He’d only spoken a few times, in short English phrases heavily accented. Of course, he most certainly spoke better English than I did German. Sometimes, I stumbled my way through talking with him in his language. Other times, I spoke English. Either way, he sat quietly, letting me chatter and eating whatever I presented him.
I didn’t know his whole story, but his daughter had visited him at some point and told me his wife had died a year before I moved in and that he was very lonely. She and her siblings had moved away for work, and they only got to visit every so often. I’d taken to feeding him, invited him to every feast night, and occasionally helped with other things when he let me. He wasn’t infirm, probably in his early eighties and healthy, but so quiet.
He was a grandfatherly figure like I’d never had. My own grandparents passed away before I knew them, and no one else in my family sat quietly, without judgement, like he did. We’d formed a kind of loners’ bond. Guilt streaked through me at the thought of someone else walking him home, but he seemed perfectly comfortable with Nick doing it.
“Well… thank you.”
Mr. Meier stood, then set a hand on mine. I smiled at him and dipped my head. He then led the way out of the dining area to the door, where he removed his coat from the hanger just inside. Nick sent me one last piercing look, something I couldn’t decipher, and then followed him.
I ducked back into the kitchen, my ears full of a rushing sound I didn’t understand and my heart tachycardic. I steadied myself on the counter, feeling unaccountably hot and mentally fuzzy. What had he done to me with that look?
Returning to the sink, I rinsed dishes, loaded the dishwasher, filled a pot to soak, then grabbed a rag to wipe the table. Folding it in a neat square, I nearly collided with Nick, who was walking into the kitchen just as I planned to exit.
“What are you doing?” I asked, less accusatory and more surprised. Breathy and silly, if you want honesty.
“I’m here to help clean up.”
His words in the space sounded rich and deliciously masculine. There were only ever women in this place after a certain time. Only me, really. That voice in my kitchen made my stomach clench.
“I know I mentioned before—I do all the cleanup. It’s a rule about coming to feast night.”
He stepped closer. “I’m not leaving all of this for you.”
I didn’t budge. “Yes, you are. That’s the rule.”
“Consider it a broken one, then.”
I sucked in a breath, something about that sending a thrill straight through me, even as I knew I couldn’t allow this. “No.”
He stepped closer. We stood only a foot apart.
“Summer.”
I swallowed. He’d never said my first name before, except in writing, andoh, hi,it sounded so good coming from those lips in that voice.
His gaze flickered over my face, snagged on my lips, but then returned to my eyes. “I’m here. I’m not leaving until you let me help.”
That firmed my resolve. My house, my rules, no matter how flambé-hot a given guest may be. “Really? If I ask you to leave, you’re going to stay here without my consent?”
His face didn’t change but for a slow blink. “If you genuinely want me to leave, I will. Say it now, or let me help.”
Indecision warred in me. I hated the idea of him helping me. It broke the rules. It went against the whole concept. But I most certainly did not want him to leave. He and his gray shirt needed to stay as long as possible now that they were here.
I took a breath, clenching my jaw and promising myself this wasn’t a terrible idea. It also didn’t have to be a big deal, even though the pit in my stomach, a confusing mix of anticipation and dread, told me otherwise.
“Fine,” I said, then walked around him to the table so I’d have something to do with my hands.
