Page 18 of Soft Tissue Damage
“I’m pleased to hear it. Listen, Elena. Are you free to babysit Rosie this Friday? I would have called you sooner, but it took us a while to set a date for our poker game.”
I close my eyes and smile. “I’d love to.”
“Wonderful. Did you get the money I sent you via Cash App last week?”
“I did, thank you.” For the first time since I moved into my own place two and a half years ago, I had a little money left in my bank account after I paid my aunts. I felt like I could breathe for the first time in forever. Maybe it would have been easier for me to pay off my aunts’ loan if I were living with them, but I would have been miserable because of their beady eyes and disapproval, and while I ate their food and used their electricity, the debt would have just kept growing.
I had to fight for every scrap of happiness in my life, and I’m going to keep fighting for it.
“You’re welcome. See you this Friday after your shift.”
“I don’t mind coming earlier—before Rosie is asleep,” I say quickly before he can hang up. “I’d like to be there to put her to bed so she won’t be surprised to see me in the night when she wakes up.”
“What about the diner? I thought you would be working.”
“I can trade shifts with someone.”
He’s silent for a moment. “I don’t expect you to lose out on money while you’re looking after my daughter. Come at five, and I’ll pay you for your time.”
I tense up, afraid he thinks I offered just so I could get more money out of him. “You really don’t need to do that. Just pay me from the time you leave.”
“No, you’re right that you should be the one to putRosie to bed. I should have suggested it myself, and I’m going to pay you for your time and work. I like that you’re thinking of her happiness.”
“But you really don’t need to—”
“Elena,” he says firmly. “Don’t argue with me.”
Loosening my grip on my phone, I take a breath and say, “Yes, Mr. Grant.”
I hear the smile in his voice. “All right. See you on Friday at five. After Rosie is asleep, I’ll cook for us.”
He hangs up before I can say goodbye, probably so I can’t argue with him.
I clasp my phone between my hands, no longer aware that I’m perched on the grimy diner steps, and I smile up at the sunny sky. This Friday. I can’t wait. Looking after Rosie is the happiest I’ve felt in a long time.
“I hopeyou don’t mind that we’re eating in here instead of the dining room,” Mr. Grant says as he places a salad and a platter of chicken thighs roasted with peppers and herbs on the kitchen table. Rosie is in her crib, and she’s such a sound sleeper, I know she won’t need me again for hours.
I shake my head. “Not at all. The food looks amazing, thank you.”
We sit down, and Mr. Grant fills a plate and passes it to me before serving himself. It feels nice to sit down to a proper meal in a home, and his kitchen is cozy. I usually snatch a bite at the diner before my shift starts.
Mr. Grant gets a call in the middle of dinner and excuses himself, saying it’s about tonight’s game. He walks out into the garden, closing the back door behind him. I can see his profile through the window as he talks, and his face is sterner and flintier than I’ve ever seen it before. I dawdle my fork through my food, curious about why he would look so intense while talking about poker. You’d think he was discussing life and death.
When he comes back inside and sits down, I remark, “You must really like it.”
Mr. Grant frowns in puzzlement. “What?”
“Poker.”
His face clears, and the corner of his lip quirks in a smile. “Oh, yes. It’s become an obsession for me. I used to stand back and watch, but now I’m enjoying getting my hands dirty.”
He heads off at nine-thirty, and I intend to get my book and read, but as I head for the stairs, I’m distracted by a photograph on the wall. It’s one of Leon and Mr. Grant at the beach with their arms around each other. Leon looks about twelve years old. I smile at boyish Leon, and then my eyes move over to Mr. Grant. His body is lean and muscular, and there’s bare skin on his arms and chest. It hasn’t all been filled in with tattoos. I study the photograph closely, wondering if I can make out which tattoos haven’t yet been inked into his flesh. I think I remember a bird’s wing on his arm that’s missing, and an ornate metal key on his bicep…
I step back, realizing I’ve been staring at Mr. Grant’sbody for a ridiculous amount of time. Am I getting a weird crush on my boyfriend’s father?
My boyfriend’s father who is also my boss?
I have got to stop staring at Mr. Grant at every opportunity. He’d be horrified if he knew that I was having these thoughts about him, and I’d probably lose this job. I’m striving to pay off my debt so I can meet my real family one day soon, and I can’t jeopardize that by having thirsty thoughts about an off-limits, older man. God, he must be twice my age.
