It’s sleep I desperately need—making up for all that was lost to worry this week.
Rap rap…rap…rap rap.
It’s Faith’s trademark knock, random and improvised. It’s never the same sequence.
I blink away sleep, but the pace of my heart is so erratic it has me sitting and reaching for my cane before consciousness fully engages.
“Coming!” I yell, even though we can see each other because she’s peeking in through the front window next to the door.
When I open the door, she’s standing with her feet centered between the remaining letters on the W…E mat looking down at them. “We,” she says. “Do you think it means something?”
I’m pretty sure I’m awake now, but the question catches me off guard. She lifts her chin and trains her blue eyes on me. I’d forgotten how deep they are, her eyes. “What do you mean?”
She doesn’t move. “I mean the rest of the letters are gone. As if removed purposely. All that’s left is ‘we.’”
Her words ring in my ears. All that’s left is we. Her. And me. I shrug. “I suppose that’s true. All that’s left, tonight anyway, is we. You and me.” She smiles, and I feel the acceptance of my apology before I even say it. “I’m sorry. It was a misunderstanding. I was laughing at her jealousy, not at you. I should’ve come to you sooner. Life’s been—”
She cuts me off with a finger held to my lips and repeats, “We.” And then she steps off the mat and enters my apartment. “What’s for dinner, Seamus?”
As she follows me to the kitchen, I scratch the back of my neck, wondering the same thing. “I’m not sure. We’ll have to make do. I haven’t been to the grocery store in a week.”
She shrugs. “I’m easy to feed.” She’s always agreeable, and I wonder if that’s a direct reflection of her parents and how she was raised, if it’s just her, or if it’s something she works at.
I open the cupboard and the refrigerator and survey. “Looks like ramen, mac and cheese, cereal, oatmeal, or bologna sandwiches. Oh, or toast. Or any combination of the aforementioned.”
Looking over my shoulder to gauge her reaction, I find her smiling. “How about mac and cheese bologna sandwiches?”
“What do you mean, mac and cheese inside the sandwich?”
“Yeah,” she confirms. “I’ve never had that. But we have to fry the bologna. I don’t like cold, dirty meat. It makes me gag.”
I bark out a surprised laugh because that could be interpreted many ways and I don’t want to dive straight into the gutter, but I can’t help it. “Dirty meat?”
She laughs with me, blushing a bit, but standing her ground. “Yeah, dirty meat. Bologna, hot dogs, pepperoni. You never really know what’s inside. It’s dirty meat.”
Her rosy cheeks are adorable. “Gotcha. Please don’t mention that to Kira. She lives on bologna and hot dogs, and I can’t afford to cut any foods out of her limited diet.”
Faith fries the bologna while I make the mac and cheese. We even toast the bread, so everything about the sandwich is hot.
When we sit down on the couch with our plates, Faith assesses her sandwich. “Seamus, we might be on to something here. This is classy on a budget.”
Raising my eyebrows, I look around the room. “If you hadn’t noticed, that’s how I roll.”
She laughs as she bites into her sandwich and talks only after she’s swallowed. “Oh, I noticed. Me, too,” she adds with a wink.
While we eat, I decide now’s a good time to find out a little bit more about her. “Where are you from Faith?”
“Kansas City,” she answers.
I stop chewing and look at her because surely she’s kidding. She doesn’t look like a Midwesterner. “Really?”
“Really. I grew up there. I moved here a few months ago.”
“What brought you to California? You’re a long way from home.”
She smiles at me like she knows I’m going to be amused by what she’s about to say. “Research.”
I smile in return. “Ah, of course, research. Do your parents still live in Kansas City?”
She shakes her head as she chews a bite of her sandwich.
“Where do they live?”
“I grew up in foster care.”
The words, even though there wasn’t negativity behind them, concern me. I’m familiar with the foster care system due to my job. Counseling sheds light on all facets of my students’ lives. Most foster care parents are loving, giving individuals who want what’s best for the child. But, like anything else in life, there are always the bad apples. The