One Day Soon (One Day Soon, #1)(74)

He put the picture down roughly. “It didn’t work out that way,” he concluded.

My stomach twisted and my heart ached. “What happened?” I pressed.

Yoss laughed humorlessly. “He opened the door. He must have just gotten home from work. Somehow he was still living his normal life. Wearing a suit to the office. Getting his haircut. Polishing his shoes. He was just as I remembered him. A little older, but still the same. I said, ‘Hi Dad.’ He didn’t say anything. I knew he recognized me. Of course he did. I was his son, he knew who I was, but the * didn’t say anything. Then I heard a woman calling his name from somewhere in the house. Then without a single word to me he closed the door in my face.”

“Oh, Yoss, I’m sor—”

“Fuck him. Whatever. I went on with my life and that was that.” He looked at me and his face softened. Just marginally. “I learned a long time ago that I don’t need him in my life. He’s never contributed anything to the person I’ve become. I knew better than to expect anything from him.”

“You hungry? I was going to make spaghetti for dinner,” I said, changing the subject. We had time to dwell on the bad stuff. We had spent more than enough time focusing on the ways our lives went wrong.

Tonight, both of us needed something else.

“Spaghetti sounds great,” Yoss said, smiling.

“Okay, well come help me then.” I led the way into the kitchen, Yoss following me. I got out a pot and set water to boil. Yoss stood in the middle of the room, seeming unsure.

“Do you think you could get the pasta out of the pantry? It’s just over there. On the third shelf,” I directed him.

Yoss did as I asked and brought me the box of pasta. He watched me gather up the ingredients for a homemade—tomatoes, white wine, and basil.

“I don’t know how to cook. Though I have a feeling I’d be the sort to burn water,” he chuckled.

I handed him a knife and he looked at me as though I were giving him a snake. “What do you want me to do with that?” he asked, smirking.

“Go murder someone,” I deadpanned and then rolled my eyes. “I want you to cut up the tomatoes with it. Because this handy item is used for cutting things,” I teased.

“Smartass,” Yoss muttered, taking the knife and standing beside me at the counter. He hesitated, the knife poised over the tomato. “Don’t laugh, but how am I supposed to do this?”

I moved a little closer and put my hand on top of his. We both gripped the knife as I slowly pushed down into the juicy tomato. It exploded all over his shirt and we both started laughing.

“Way to ruin my one decent shirt,” Yoss moaned good-naturedly. I handed him a towel and he rubbed at the tomato, which had already stained his clothes.

He quickly handed me the towel and turned back to the cutting board. “Let me see if I can finish chopping the tomato without looking like I spent the evening dismembering someone.”

“Well that’s an image to stimulate my appetite,” I quipped. I watched him surreptitiously as he carefully chopped the rest of the tomato without further carnage.

When the sauce and pasta were finished cooking, I filled our plates and told him to have a seat at the kitchen table. Yoss sat down with a hesitant look on his face and I knew what it cost him to be here, with me, like this.

He was putting his trust in a woman he hadn’t seen in fifteen years. Trusting that I would help him. Trusting that I had his best interests at heart.

And despite our intense, tumultuous history, trusting was the hardest thing the adult Yoss could do. He had been conditioned to not trust anyone or anything.

I hated the guarded chill in his eyes. The way he constantly seemed to second-guess everything I said and did. I could tell he wanted to believe, but he struggled to.

Finally after what seemed to be inordinately long period of time, he picked up the fork I had laid out. He ate a mouthful of pasta and closed his eyes briefly.

“Damn, this is good.”

I laughed. “It’s only pasta and tomato sauce. Hardly Michelin five stars.”

Yoss ate another mouthful. Then another. He continued to eat, not saying a word until his plate was clean. He ate as though he’d never have the opportunity again. As if, at any moment, the food would be snatched from him.

I remembered after returning to my mother’s house all those years ago, devouring a sandwich in much the same way.

“You’re going to choke, Imogen,” Mom had scolded, her eyes wide as I cleaned my plate in a matter of minutes.

It took months, maybe years, to not eat as though my life depended on it. It was hard to explain to people who had never experienced hunger, how hard it was to break the habit of fear. Fear that tomorrow I wouldn’t be able to find food. That I’d wake up in the morning with the hollow feeling in my gut that signaled another day without anything to eat.

Watching Yoss eat the food that I could now take for granted, I remembered that feeling. That emptiness.

And I wanted to cry. Because while I had left that feeling behind me, Yoss still experienced it every single day.

“You can have seconds. There’s more than enough,” I told him, breaking the silence.

Yoss nodded, not quite looking at me, getting to his feet and walking to the stove where he scooped more pasta onto his plate.

“Thank you,” Yoss said softly after he finished his second plate. He carefully wiped his mouth with a napkin, balling it in his fist.