to the left, and a hallway to the right.
“Is she home?”
“Nah. She works late most nights, but she’ll be home in the morning. Hungry?”
Desmond whips up a fajita dinner with steak and all the veggies he can find in the refrigerator.
I love watching him cook. “You’re very comfortable here.”
He smiles and loads his plate with food before joining me at the dining table. “I spent a lot of time here in high school, and I lived here full-time while I went to culinary school. It feels more like home than my old place.”
I frown at that. “Your dad seems very sweet. It’s hard to imagine him any other way.”
Desmond nods, his expression showing clear confliction. I suppose he’s felt the same way often. “When he’s sober, he’s amazing. His autism doesn’t define him, you know? He would always have these outbursts of anger at the most random times, but it was manageable. Every time he lost a cooking job, he would turn to prescription drugs and alcohol. ‘To smooth his rough edges,’ his doctor would tell me. But once he goes down the substance-abuse rabbit hole, he can’t climb out of it on his own, and he’s a completely different person—aggressively impulsive, mean, violent.”
“And rehab has never been able to help him?”
Desmond shrugs. “For a short time, sure. But when he’s on his own in the real world, he falls back into the same cycle. The truth is, I’ve been trying to get him to move to Seattle for years. Why do you think that studio was available for you to move into so fast? I’ve never tried to rent it to anyone because it was always meant for him.”
My eyes widen, and my chest squeezes. “And he refuses to move?”
Desmond nods. “He needs predictability. Just the mention of moving sends him into a fit of rage.”
I can’t imagine what Desmond goes through on a daily basis, missing his father, not being able to be there to steer him down a better path. I can finally understand his feelings of guilt that seem to always live with him.
“You should talk to him again,” I suggest. “You say he turns to substance when he isn’t being fulfilled with cooking. Maybe instead of asking him to move to Seattle, you ask him to work in the kitchen with you.”
Desmond seems to be considering my words, so I take my first bite of fajita. As soon as the food hits my taste buds, I’m moaning, and my eyes roll into the back of my head. “So good.” I didn’t realize how starved I was, but then I realize I haven’t eaten since the small breakfast I had before my father arrived at the kitchen.
“I love that I can make you moan without even touching you,” Desmond teases.
I’m so thankful for the lightened mood. I smile and take another bite until we’re both enjoying our food.
We clean up the kitchen, and Desmond leads me to one of the bedrooms down the main hallway. It’s a small, simple room with white walls and a double bed. There’s a tall dresser on one side of the room and a wide closet door on the other side. I’m disappointed to see the lack of personal touch until he opens the closet door to reveal a splash of his culinary school years in the form of clothes, boxes, and stacks of magazines.
“Here.” He tosses me an old crimson-and-black shirt with his high school football team’s name on it.
I smile and look up at him before biting down on my bottom lip to keep from laughing. “You know, back in high school, this would have meant that we’re going steady. You sure you want me to wear this?”
He chuckles and rips the shirt out of my hands before turning back to his clothes. “In that case…” He pulls another shirt from the hanger and walks it over to me then places it on my chest like he’s picturing me wearing it. “Maybe you should wear this one.”
I look down at the shiny crimson fabric and swallow. It’s his old jersey. “Number twenty-four?” I ask with a smile. “That’s my lucky number.”
His grin widens, and he leans close to my ear, stealing my breath with his words. “That’s ironic because you’re about to get lucky tonight.”
He wiggles his eyebrows, and I push him away with a laugh. “We’ll see about that.”
37
Turnovers
Desmond
Maggie is currently devouring an old People magazine she found in my closet, wearing my jersey, which loosely hangs around