some unrecognizable dark stains. I hope to God that it’s not blood.
But most frightening of all is his eyes. Those eyes have seen some shit. Some bad shit. Maybe some bad shit that he himself was doing. His whole appearance suggests that that is more than likely.
My dad did always say that bad news comes in threes. First, there was Officer Sharpe. Then, Mr. Bad News Bears in the hoodie and shades. Now, this guy, a cross between The Hulk and a dumpster fire.
“Um…yes?” I say. I hate how my voice is shaking. I don’t consider myself a weak person, but how much can one woman be expected to deal with all in such a short span of time? For crying out loud, I can’t even go to the freaking grocery store without running into what is now a third threatening situation.
“You dropped this,” he says, in a deep rumble, like if a mountain could talk. He keeps his face carefully composed, not an ounce of emotion on it—other than one quick flash of his tongue, licking his chapped lower lip. It feels weirdly lascivious. I shiver.
I look down at his hand and see a tomato. I don’t think I actually dropped any, but I’m not in any mood to prolong this conversation longer than necessary.
“Th-thanks,” I stutter lamely. I grab it delicately, trying to avoid touching his hand at all, then turn around without another word.
Beep boop. The machine asks for payment. I pay up and scurry out with my bags in hand. I can feel the mountain man’s eyes on me the entire time.
When I make it home, I see that Dad hasn’t moved an inch from where I last left him. He sits in the living room in his favorite armchair, eyes glued to the television like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. I give him a kiss on the cheek as I head into the kitchen to put away the groceries, but he barely reacts.
With a heavy sigh, I drop the bags onto the counter and begin putting everything away. It takes no time at all to find the perfect spot for everything, thanks to all the rearranging I did.
Before I came to the rescue, this place was a pigpen. After I spent two full days cleaning everything up and putting all the spices and canned food in order, it looked completely transformed. Even Dad noticed, which is something special. He never notices when I change things.
I get started on the spaghetti. I’ve always liked sharpening the knife, even when I was little. There is something so satisfying about restoring order. When the blade is ready, I line up the tomatoes. Five slices longways, five slices top to bottom, five slices side to side. The counting is reassuring just like the knife-sharpening was.
Neat red cubes tumble to the surface of the cutting board. I use the blade to line them up, then shove them into the pot with the rest of the canned sauce in one clean swoop.
Next to that, I use the kitchen scale I bought Dad years ago—which had been sitting, dusty and completely unused, in the back of a cluttered junk drawer—to weigh out a precise amount of water and noodles. The water, along with three crisp shakes of sea salt, gets set over a high flame to boil.
The methodical tasks set my mind at ease. In the middle of a week that’s been anything but orderly, it feels good to do something that has a process of organization. If only my life was this straightforward.
When the water in the pot is boiling, I drop in the noodles and head into the living room to talk with my dad. On the TV, horses race around the track, and I feel annoyance bubble up in my chest.
“Dad, are you really watching this right now?” I ask him.
“What?” he replies, clearly irritated with me.
“C’mon, Dad, don’t play dumb. You’re addicted to gambling. This is gambling. Do we really have to dance around the issue?”
“It’s not an addiction, Vic. Don’t be so dramatic.”
I roll my eyes. “You used to gamble everything away, Dad. Literally everything. You had a serious problem, and watching things like horse races is only going to make you want to do it again. Next, you’ll be telling me that you’re drinking again.”
He turns and looks at me with disdain on his face. “I’m not a child, Victoria. You don’t have to treat me like a kid.”