“Oh, that’s not necess—”
“Sweet girl,” he says, his tone warning. “I insist.”
He puts a little bit more pressure on my shoulders once we get to my chair and I sit. It does feel so good to get off my feet. I was observing a kindergarten class for a school project, and well, there’s no way to simply ‘observe’ when there are screaming five-year-olds grabbing at your skirt and asking you to color and play with them. I became the unofficial class ‘helper’ all day. And as adorable as those kids were, I’m pretty sure my ears are still ringing. There was this little blonde girl and that kid had a set of lungs on her and she didn’t mind letting the whole world know when she wasn’t in a good mood, let me tell ya.
Dominick sets the rice on the table and serves everyone some, followed by Dad with the marsala. The steaming food smells delicious and my stomach rumbles in response. I barely had time to scarf down half the peanut butter and honey sandwich I packed for lunch before there was a crisis on the playground and I had to hurry back to it.
The men sit and then we’re all diving in.
Dinner’s quiet for a while as everyone digs in. I have a feeling Dad and Dominick were just as hungry as I was with the way they’re attacking the mini-mountains of marsala Dominick loaded onto each of their plates with.
Dominick eats with the gusto of a man who’s been starved for months.
After about ten minutes, when he’s filling his plate for seconds, Dad shakes his head. “Filling up that hollow leg of yours?”
Dad always eats with a calm, measured pace and will sometimes close his eyes with a look of concentration, like he’s just thinking about the flavor of his food and how pleasurable the whole act is. I’ve never been more conscious of my cooking than since he moved in. I want it to be perfect for him.
Dominick acts like the whole thing is a land/speed contest, except you know…with food getting shoved in his mouth. It’s even worse in the mornings. He jams food in his mouth as he runs out the door, always in a rush. Apparently before they moved in, he would just eat the worst junk too. And him a doctor.
Dominick just grunts and starts shoveling in the second serving. I just shake my head.
Once the beast that is my new brother is finally sated, we start talking about our days. Since it’s actually early tonight, Dad suggests we leave the dishes for later and move to the den for dessert and to watch a movie he and Dominick had talked about wanting to see on Netflix.
My stomach warms in delight at the thought of getting to spend more time with them. They’ve been living here for just shy of three months now and it’s rare that we all get to hang out together apart from our daily dinners. I’ve spent time with each of them one-on-one, but coordinating our schedules for more than an hour a day is difficult without real dedicated effort.
“You guys go ahead, I’ll get the chocolate mousse cups.” I try to tame my ridiculous grin as they nod and head for the other room. Sometimes I feel like such a dorky little sister. I worry that both of them will realize just how lame I am and how many more interesting places they could be than stuck here at home. Don’t they have awesome bars or clubs they could be partying at?
But so far, they both seem to be homebodies. I’m something of a night-owl—probably comes with growing up with Mom—so I’d know if they were coming home late…or not at all. But so far, apart from Dominick’s crazy shifts, neither of them seems to have any…extracurricular activities. Dad didn’t make any secret out of the fact that he and Mom don’t plan to, you know, at least with each other. But I haven’t seen or heard him mention any other women. Dominick either.
Maybe they’re just really discreet or Dominick finds outlets in the hours between work and coming home. Maybe Dominick and one of the other residents at the hospital…? Or they’re celibate? Or going through one heck of a dry spell?
Oh my God, why am I even thinking about any of this?
I squeeze my eyes shut and bang my head lightly on the refrigerator door. I shake my head at myself. My brain is so weird sometimes, my mind going such strange places.
I open the fridge door and grab three of the little individual chocolate mousse cups I filled earlier right after I got home. They look frosty and delicious and chocolatey. I glance down at the three I have balanced precariously in my hands and set them down on the counter. Then I grab a serving tray, transfer the three cups and reach back in the fridge for a fourth. After getting spoons I head into the den.