The Problem with Forever(69)

“It’s...it’s pot roast.” I was no longer hungry. I glanced at his mouth and quickly looked away. “Um, Rosa is... She’s a great cook.”

Hyperaware of his presence, I started to lead him toward the kitchen. We walked through the living room, and Rider stopped suddenly in front of the china cabinet. “What are these?” he asked.

I turned, following his gaze. My eyes widened. He was staring at the soap carvings he must not have noticed the day he’d stopped over after school. “Um...”

He leaned in, tilting his head to the side as he studied a sleeping cat. “Were they bars of soap?”

“Yeah,” I whispered.

“Wow,” he murmured, his gaze crawling over the heart and the sun I’d done a few years ago. “Did Carl or Rosa do this?”

I shook my head. “No. Um. I...did them.”

“What?” He straightened and looked at me, surprise filling his expression. “You did this? Why haven’t you said anything?”

My cheeks were burning. “No...one but Carl and Rosa know about it.”

He stared at me then looked back into the cabinet. “Mallory, that’s pretty amazing.”

I lifted a shoulder. “It’s just...soap.”

“It’s soap you carved into very recognizable things,” he said. “I can’t do that.”

“But you can spray-paint and draw and—”

“And I can’t do this,” Rider repeated. “Those carvings take just the same amount of skill as spray-painting does.”

I was going to have to disagree with that. Uncomfortable with the attention, I gestured toward the kitchen. “You ready?”

He watched me a moment longer then nodded.

Carl and Rosa waited at the kitchen table.

“This...this is Rider,” I said, twisting my hands together. “And this...this is Carl and Rosa.”

Rosa’s brows lifted and there was a slight widening of her eyes.

Carl eyed Rider from the scuffed toes of his boots to the top of his messy blackish-brown hair, and his brows slammed down.

And that was the moment I knew this dinner was going to be all kinds of awkward.

*

It started with the food.

And then the questions.

Both things were related. The moment we sat down, Carl began grilling Rider. Caught off guard by the tactic, I only managed to cut into my slice of roast and eat a chunk of potato.

Rider also hadn’t touched most of his food, probably because Carl was apparently interviewing him. When there was a break in the Spanish Inquisition, Rider turned to me. “Are you going to eat?”

I nodded as I speared a potato. Rider watched until I actually ate the vegetable, and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes only because I knew what drove him. Like the times at lunch, he always made sure I ate. It was hard to break the habit after years of sharing scraps and leftovers. I ate another potato and Rider spooned up chickpeas.

Cutting into the pot roast, I glanced up and across the table. Carl and Rosa were staring at us. Knowing they probably didn’t understand the exchange, I flushed.

“So you work at some kind of body shop?” Carl cleared his throat. A piece of perfectly cooked pot roast dangled from his fork. “Part-time?”

I closed my eyes.

“Yes, sir. At Razorback Garage. The owner calls me in to do custom paint jobs,” Rider answered patiently. He’d been patient throughout the whole—the whole ordeal.

He answered every question Carl posed. How long was he in a group home? What neighborhood did he live in? What subject in school was he most interested in? Which, not surprisingly, turned out to be art class. The questions kept coming and coming, so much so that Rosa didn’t get a word in edgewise.

I was so embarrassed.

And so incredibly disappointed.

“What do your foster parents do for a living?” Carl asked.

My fingers tightened around my fork as I breathed through my nose. This...this was getting out of hand.

Rider was unfazed. “I only have one foster parent. Mrs. Luna’s husband passed away before I came into the picture. She works at the phone company.”

“And what do you plan to do when you graduate high school?” Carl kept on firing. “You’ll age out of the system and I assume you don’t plan on staying with Mrs. Luna. Are you heading to college?”

“I currently don’t have any plans to go to college,” Rider responded as he pushed his chickpeas across his plate. “That costs a lot of money, and Mrs. Luna has already done so much for me. I couldn’t expect her to pay for my college.”

“There are grants and scholarships,” Carl reasoned as he cut into the slice of pot roast. “I’m under the impression that you’re very bright.”

“He is,” I said. “And he’s also very talented. He...he has artwork displayed at a place in the city.”

Rider grinned at me.

“You do?” Rosa responded smoothly. “At an art gallery?”

As Rider answered her question, I prayed that Carl would stop with the third degree.

Rider looked over and asked for a second time, “You’re not eating?”

Half of my mouthwatering pot roast sat untouched. I was too frustrated to chew my food without spitting it onto the table.