Never Let You Go(49)

Angus woke up and yawned noisily. I wiggled my toes against his belly. It’s fun having a dog in the house, even if he did chew up a couple of my pens already and wants to go outside every ten minutes and woofs at everything and tries to steal food off the counter. He’s snuggly and always looks happy and bumps his head into my hand and flops down across my legs. During the night he took turns sleeping with me and Mom, like he isn’t sure who he belongs with or where he was supposed to be, but it was his first night. I think he’ll figure it out.

Andrew answers my knock with a smile and an overly cheerful, “Come in!”

I follow him inside, take off my boots at the door, placing them next to his work boots. The sight of them throws me for a moment. I remember his boots always sitting by our door at home, covered in dust or mud or snow and ice depending on the time of year. I’d forgotten about that, how I used to like wearing them around the house and he’d laugh.

I sit at the kitchen table, where I can see most of the upstairs living area. On the phone he sounded really excited because he’d lucked out and found this place at short notice and was able to move in by the middle of the month. It’s all happening so fast that when I stop to think about it, my head spins. Then I remember how Mom and he got married in six months. Is this just what my dad is like? He makes quick decisions? I don’t know if that’s good or bad.

The kitchen is large, with modern appliances and granite counters, but he looks comfortable, like he was always meant to be in a kitchen like this.

“Can I get you something to drink?” he says, reaching into the fridge

“Maybe just water, thanks.”

He places a glass in front of me, then goes back to the stove. I take a sip of the water, noticing the geometric frosted design on the side of the glass. I imagine him at the department store, loading up his cart with whatever caught his eye. He’s put a tablecloth on the kitchen table, but I can tell by the legs, dark espresso wood, that it must be expensive. In the living room he has a chocolate leather couch and a cedar-plank coffee table. There’s no art yet. No framed photos or any of those things that make a house a home, but he’s arranged a couple of big plants in the corner, look like fig trees. One of them has white Christmas lights strung around it.

“You like plants?” I say. He turns around from the stove, where he’s stirring a pot of thick chili. The air smells spicy and sweet.

“My landlady gave them to me. I think she thought my decorating was depressing.” He gives his crooked smile. He’s showered and shaved, his hair still a little wet, and a few hairs are sticking up in the back. His jeans look clean and he’s tucked in his shirt and is wearing a belt. I can tell he also cleaned the place—the cream throw blanket on the couch is perfectly straight and everything is set out nicely on the table, a cloth napkin folded beside my place mat, a knife, fork, and spoon all lined up on the napkin. In the center of the table he’s arranged a few small bowls with cheddar cheese, sliced green onions, guacamole, and a big bowl full of tortilla chips. It makes me think of the Mexican dinner we had with Marcus and I feel another wave of guilt.

I get up from the table and wander into the living room, finger the leaves on the plant. No dust. The soil is wet. He has a flat-screen TV and a chrome stereo that looks sleek and expensive with blue glowing lights. It took Mom years before we could buy a flat-screen and we found our stereo at Walmart—a marked-down floor model with dents and scratches. A few books are stacked on the coffee table. I pick one up, flip through the pages. It’s a Tom Clancy thriller.

“I read a lot in prison,” he says from the kitchen. I come back and sit at the table, help myself to some of the chips, which make a loud crunching noise when I bite into them.

He glances over his shoulder with a smile. “Those are really good. They’re a new flavor—garlic and black bean. Back in my day, they just had plain.

“Is it strange?” I say. “Going to stores and seeing new things?”

He nods as he takes a tub of sour cream out of the fridge, places it in the center of the table. “Yeah, but it’s also like I get to live everything over again, which can be fun sometimes.” He spoons chili into bowls and carries them over. “It’s vegetarian.”

I glance up at him. “How did you know I’m vegetarian?”

“When we were having coffee, you were wearing a T-shirt that said I DON’T EAT MY FRIENDS. I figured you either just liked the T-shirt or you were a vegetarian.”

“Yeah, sorry.”

He shrugs. “Nothing to be sorry about. It’s good to have beliefs. Bet you really hated that roast beef sandwich I made you.” He laughs as he sits down across from me.

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“Well, hopefully you like this better. Dig in.”

I take a mouthful. “Yum. This is really good.” This time I’m not lying. The chili is sweet and spicy, but not too hot, and he used big chunks of vegetables.

“I’m glad you like it,” he says. “I missed vegetables when I was behind bars. The food they serve is crap. I wouldn’t feed it to a pig.”

We eat in silence for a few moments, then he says, “You excited about Christmas? When you were a kid you couldn’t sleep for days.”

“It’s nice having a week off school.” I don’t want to talk about Mom or our traditions, how it is now that he’s gone. “Are you doing anything for Christmas?”