Page 118 of Harvest of Sighs (Thornchapel 3)
“No.”
“When’s the last time you’ve eaten?”
“I don’t remember.”
It was important for me to know how long she’d been without food, but I decided not to push. “Could you eat now?”
That earned me a shrug, which earned her me crossing my arms. “Out loud please.”
Her eyes lifted to mine, dark in the nighttime glow of the loft. “I could, Rebecca.”
That settled it. I asked her then if there was anything she felt like eating and anything she couldn’t eat—no and no, were the answers—and so I got her another glass of water and thought for a moment.
My experience feeding subs stoppe
d at giving them bananas or chocolate to help with blood sugar drops after a scene. Maybe the occasional “help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge” if they spent the night and I needed to leave for work before they were dressed and ready to go. But that she needed to eat was apparent to me.
Fuck it.
I’d feed her what Ma would feed me—what she made whenever I was sick or stressed or sad. I picked up my phone and called my favorite Ghanaian restaurant.
“Black Stars,” the voice answered promptly.
“Auntie, it’s Rebecca,” I said, walking into the kitchen. “Can I get light soup and fufu delivered, please?”
“It’s late,” Auntie Yaa says, even though I know they’ll be open for hours yet to serve the hungry clubgoers after they’re done drinking and dancing. “You should be eating dinner earlier than now. Is your father working you too hard again?”
I smiled tiredly into the phone. “When isn’t he?”
“And is this just for you, Rebecca?” Her voice was businesslike, but not businesslike enough that I knew my answer wouldn’t be logged away as potential gossip.
“No, Auntie, it’s for two.”
She made a low mmmm noise. “Who is he? Does he have a good job? What is his family like?”
He. I sometimes forgot how they always assumed he.
“It’s just a friend, Auntie.”
“You young people. Always the same. ‘Just a friend.’ ‘Just hooking up.’ ‘Just hanging out.’ You need to marry. Settle down. Make little babies for Auntie Yaa to feed fufu to.” I could hear her moving around on her end, I could hear the ring of the till, the congenial shout of voices in the kitchen. The music of Black Stars.
“I’ll send Kofi with the fufu,” she said. “Have fun with your friend.”
A lifetime of aunties had taught me when it was wisest to be a submissive. When arguing will only earn you more pain—even if that pain was just the hassle of being scolded on the phone. “Thank you, Auntie. I will.”
We hung up then. She had my card on file along with my address, and I knew the food would either be here in twenty minutes or it would be here in an hour and twenty minutes, and so there was no sense in asking when to expect it.
I set my phone down and walked over to where Delphine stood near the window. For the first time since I’d met her, she didn’t seem to need to fill the silence, and for the first time since I met her, I wished she would.
But after a long time, I looked over to see that she had drifted closer to me. Her eyes were still down on the street, which on a weekday was mostly empty, and she was still silent. But she was close enough now that I could touch her if I wanted. Close enough that I could see the goosebumps on her arms. I had the strangest urge to run my fingertips over them. To smooth my palm over her skin and warm her up again.
And then the doorbell rang.
Kofi.
I went down and got the food, thanked him, and then brought the soup up to the kitchen to serve it. Delphine moved of her own volition for the first time that night, coming over to the kitchen island, her cute nose twitching as she took in the peppery aroma of the soup.
“What’s this?” she asked, peering down at the bowl I put in front of her.
