Hopeful Whispers

by Bink Cummings

  “Is there anything you might want to get while we're here?” I prompt for the umpteenth time. Either she doesn’t eat or doesn’t care what she feeds that tiny body.

  “No. I’m good.” Her attention’s focused elsewhere. Too busy studying the messy haired teenager in the frozen food section out of the corner of her eye. He smiles warmly our way, and I raise a hand in hello. Returning the gesture, he drops a pot pie into his basket. Rosie frowns.

  “You should wave to him. It’s polite,” I suggest because my gut says she doesn’t grasp social cues all that well. And domestic duties, such as shopping, definitely knock her off-kilter. Rosie ignores my suggestion as predicted.

  Oh well. I tried.

  Up next is the chicken. Picking through multiple packages of breasts, I settle on the heaviest family pack. “Do you like chicken?” I ask, carefully adding the package to our half-full cart.

  “Sure.”

  Rosie runs a palm absentmindedly across the shorn side of her skull. Yes, I said shorn. Rosie’s the epitome of a punk rock chick. Between her black, black, and … more black wardrobe, to her natural blonde hair, cut angularly at her jaw on one side while the opposite’s clipped short. Amazingly enough, it’s sexy on her. She has the face and bone structure to pull it off. No wonder Kade’s besotted. She’s gorgeous, petite, confident, and lethal. Granted, her social skills could use a tune-up.

  Leading us down the next aisle, I stop at the cookies, determined to get her to pick one item for herself. It’s the least I can do. “Do you like cookies?” I hold out a package of Oreos in one hand and vanilla wafers in the other.

  “Sure.” Rosie shrugs her left shoulder dismissively.

  I sigh inwardly. That’s not good enough.

  “Can you please tell me why you’re being so difficult? You’re staying with us. I want you to have food in the house you like. If you won’t tell me, I can’t buy the right stuff.”

  Eyeing the cracker section in avoidance, she groans lowly. “Look. I’ll eat anything. I’m not picky. When I spend most of my time going from motel to motel, fast food, bad diners, and frozen dinners are pretty much all I eat. So when I say I don’t want anything, I don’t. Whatever’s provided is fine with me. I’m not your guest to dote upon. I’m here to do a job. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

  That’s sad. I don’t want this job to be like the rest. Rosie deserves home cooked meals and common decency.

  “Do you ever cook for yourself?” I tread lightly.

  “No.”

  “Not even when you’re at home between jobs?”

  “Nope. I don’t have a home.”

  I tuck a stray hair behind my ear and readjust my glasses. “What do you mean you don’t have a home?”

  How’s that possible? Where does she go on her downtime? Where’s her anchor? Geeze. I have so many damn questions, and I have a feeling she’s not gonna answer a single one.

  “With all due respect, my personal life is not up for discussion.” She shuts me out.

  Bingo. Nailed it. I knew that’s how she’d react. Rosie’s carefully constructed walls are taller and denser than mine. I fully respect not wanting to get close to people. That’s how I’ve spent the majority of my life, keeping everyone in my life at arm’s length. Aside from my kids, Grandma, Dad, and Brent, aka liar face Ryker. And you’ve seen what trusting him got me. To be this distant, Rosie’s skeletons have gotta be far scarier than mine. I can spot a kindred spirit from a mile away. We’re more alike than I think she realizes.

  Refusing to admit defeat, I drop both packs of cookies into the cart. Don’t think I don’t notice her sidelong peek at the sweets, and the quirk in her lip. Most women would give up their right tit for chocolate. I’m willing to bet Rosie’s the same. Even if she’s a brass-balled bitch.

  Trying a different tactic on for size, I waddle to the bread section and select a crusty loaf to make garlic toast tonight. Swiping the back of my hand across my forehead, I exaggerate my level of exhaustion with a woeful exhale. “Rosie, do you think you could help me with dinner? Dad and Bear said they’d be coming over, and I don’t think I can do it by myself. This baby has zapped all my energy.” Which isn’t a lie. I could use a nap. My feet do hurt. Cooking does wear me out.

  Finally looking my way, her eyes widen a smidge. “You want me to help you cook?”

  Instead of asking if she can cook, I opt for the simplest route, so she doesn’t think I’m prying. “If you don’t know how to prepare the meal, I can walk ya through it.”

  Rosie chews on her inner cheek, red lips pouty in contemplation. “I … um … sure? I’ve never had a job before where I had to cook for anyone, but I suppose I can.” She’s uncomfortable—finicky. Wow. This is a different side to her. One that’s vulnerable and unsure. In her element, Rosie’s a charming, silver-tongued badass. Here, not so much. I liked her before. Now that I know she’s got a moat of vulnerability lurking beneath that kempt exterior, I’m endeared to her. Whether she knows it or not, I’m gonna make her my friend. Not for my sake. But hers. Something tells me Rosie needs a friend, and since I no longer have a job, my love life’s nonexistent, and I can’t do much other than read or fiddle around the house, endearing Rosie to me in return will be a worthwhile task. Anything’s better than moping around the cabin, waiting for my kids to return from school, or Ryker dropping by to feed me scraps of attention. Attention I shouldn’t want nor crave. Even though the deepest recesses of my soul are desperate to soak it up like a pathetic sponge. Freud would have a field day with me.

  Clapping my hands twice, I then point to the wall of crackers. “Now pick what crackers you like. Come on. Don’t be a spoilsport.”

  Rosie curbs a grin that wants to break free. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?” She chuckles to herself, combing her designer hair to one side.

  “Nope. Not at all. You might be working a job. But that doesn’t mean you gotta eat nail clippings and pubic hair.”

  Her button nose scrunches up. “Ewww. Gross. Whoever said I eat nail clippings and pubic hair? That’s nasty.”

  I laugh. “You said you eat at crappy diners and cook frozen dinners. What do you think’s in the stuff they try to pass off as food?”

  Realization dawns on her, and she shakes a playful finger at me. “Touché.” Snatching a box of buttery crackers off the shelf, she tosses them on the pile of groceries. “That work?”

  “Better. Now you get to help me pick juice.”

  More at ease pushing the cart, she replies, “That’s simple. Apple.”

  I spot the juice at the end of the aisle. “The real or wannabe kind?”

  “Real.”

  In goes a bottle of natural apple juice and some fruity V8’s for the girls. Remind me to grab a jug of zero pulp freshly squeezed orange juice when I get to the milk section. Plus, I suppose I should get more milk. I didn’t check to see what the expiration date was on the one in Ryker’s sparsely stocked fridge. Though I gotta hand it to him, the canned foods section in his walk-in pantry is on point. Too bad I prefer frozen or fresh to canned.

  Up one aisle and down the next, Rosie participates in deciding what we’ll eat this week. We joke about eggplant sizes. Opting for the biggest. I plan to razz Dickcheese about our purchase later. In the egg section, she does the picking while I grab a tub of real butter. All Ryker has is margarine. By the time we’re finished, Rosie’s aloofness has diminished considerably, and we’ve got ourselves an overflowing cart.

  At checkout, she quietly helps me load the food onto the conveyor. “Don’t overdo it, Kat. I’ll get the rest,” she remarks when I try to reach the bottom of the cart and fail miserably, thanks to this giant bump and my vertically challenged legs. Frustrated, I concede, knowing it’s for the best.

  “Thanks,” I comment.

  She waves me off. “No problem.”

  Underneath the cart, Rosie goes to lift the flat of bottled water when a gentlemen wearing a Sacred Sinners cut and Stetson intrudes. “Here. Why don’t y
a let me get that for ya, doll.” The man kneels next to Rosie to help. For a split second, I wonder if she’ll pull a blade on him. She shocks me when she scoots back and lets him intervene. Smart woman.

  Setting the water on the belt with ease, he turns to me with a toothy grin. “You must be Katrina, Ghost’s daughter.” He offers his hand.

  It’s warm and firm in mine as we shake. “Nice to meet you…” I pause to read the name patch on his broad chest. “Bongo.”

  Dipping his head out of respect, he kisses my knuckles. “The pleasure’s all mine, ma’am. If you need anythin’ at all, don’t hesitate to ask,” he drawls in his panty melting Texan twang.

  Flashing him a parting smile, trying desperately not to blush, I bid him adieu, and check out.

  Three hundred dollars later, we load up the Suburban. It’s a breeze with Rosie’s assistance. Normally, I do all the heavy lifting. Now let’s see if she can survive Kat’s no-nonsense cooking school. Eggplant lasagna is on the menu tonight. Before she knows what’s hit her, I’m gonna make Rosie a three-star chef and a friend.

  Kat

  Seated on a stool in the kitchen so I can cook with Rosie and rest my tired feet, I stroke an eggplant against my uninjured cheek to annoy Kade. “You’re a pretty vegetable, aren’t you? Such a good boy,” I coo.

  “You’re a pervert.”

  Kade grimaces, and Rosie laughs alongside Dad and Bear. Don’t worry. I wouldn’t display this sorta lewdness if my girls were present. They’re currently busy doing homework in their bedroom. The rest of my family showed up about twenty minutes ago with warm hugs, empty stomachs, and a homemade pecan pie to salivate over. Wonder if I can sneak it into my bedroom to eat later. Think anyone would notice it went missing? One small slice isn’t going to appease baby number three. She needs at least two large slices and half a can of whipped cream to be happy. Yep. It’s baby number three’s fault. That’s my story, and I’m stickin’ to it.

  “Do you think this sauce needs any more garlic or sugar?” Rosie lifts a spoonful of hot tomato sauce to my lips. Careful not to scald my tongue, I blow the steam away until it’s edible before sampling.

  “Mmmm. That’s really good. It could use a pinch more sugar and another clove of garlic. You can never go wrong with lots of garlic.”

  Nodding like a competent sous chef, Rosie, clad in a pair of black, skintight jeans and a black off the shoulder t-shirt, minces another fat clove of the garlic we bought and sweeps it into the boiling pot. I have to hand it to Ryker, he has top of the line pots, pans, knives, utensils, and gadgets. There’s a garlic press in the drawer, but I decided Rosie should learn to mince by hand. She’s a quick study. Roxie and Scarlett, for their age, are also well versed in the kitchen. By seven, they could scramble eggs, pound chicken breast, and prepare any type of boxed food. Not to say they don’t make a mess while doing it, but they’re capable nonetheless. I’m determined to get Rosie to their caliber. If not higher.

  Returning my attention to Kade and the eggplant, I lick the tip of the vegetable, pretending it’s a cock. “Do you like that? You want more, big boy?” I husk, lavishing the purple skin with the flick of my tongue. “How about that?”

  Lifting it to my ear, I pretend it’s imparting a slew of naughtiness. Committing to the role, I faux shiver and roll my fluttery eyes back into my skull. “Oooo. You wanna do that to me there. I dunno if I’ll like it.”

  At this point, Bear’s laughing so hard he’s barely breathing, Dad’s silently cracking up, and Kade’s as red as a fire engine.

  “We gotta eat that, Watermelon Tits.”

  My bestie’s dismayed.

  I balk, hugging the vegetable to my chest to protect it. “You can’t eat my boyfriend.”

  Kade cants his head, grinning half-cocked. He totally loves me. “Woman, where in the hell do you come up with these things to drive me up the wall?”

  “What are you talking about? You love purple eggplants. You text them to me all the time.”

  Payback’s a bitch.

  “I do not.”

  “You so do. Do you not remember all the texts where I’m like, hey what are you up to?” Setting the veggie on the counter, I pretend to text on an invisible phone for emphasis. “And you respond with a purple eggplant and a splashing water emoji. That wasn’t code for an emotional vegetable, now was it?”

  Palm to face, Kade slowly drags it down, chuckling guiltily. “Jesus. You asked what I was doin’ and I was bein’ honest.”

  I’ve been patiently waiting months to bake Kade purple eggplant lasagna to get my sweet revenge for his texts. One text, I could’ve shrugged it off. By the twentieth, I was committed to seek retribution. Not only was he rubbing my nose in his ample sex life, he was relaying the sordid details. Not that I’m angry about it. It’s actually kinda hilarious. But that’s beside the point. I’m merely repaying the favor in front of Rosie to embarrass him. Oh, the strange things we do to the men we adore.

  “Riiiight. So the next time I have a masturbatory sesh in the shower and you text, I’m gonna reply with a peach, water splashing emoji, and the ‘O’ face. After that, I’ll tell you all about the water hittin’ my who-ha and the way it makes my legs quake,” I deadpan, fiddling with the A necklace around my neck.

  Rosie snickers next to me.

  Bear snorts and wipes the tears from his reddened face. Dad pats his shoulder to check if he’s good. We don’t want the poor guy croaking on us.

  Lifting his hands in mock surrender, Kade yields. “Alright. Alright. You made your point.”

  Gloating, I press my shoulders back, nose turned up. “Damn straight.”

  “You’re making eggplant lasagna to torment me, aren’t you?”

  “Yup.”

  Tickled pink, Kade rests his elbows on the counter. Propping his chin on his knuckles, he stares longingly at me. What a damn nutcase. My nutcase. “And you wonder why you’re my favoritest person in the entire world.”

  With theatrical flair, I clasp my hands over my chest. “Aww. Be still my beating heart. He loves me. He really loves me.” I perform the heck out of my Scarlett O’Hara impersonation—expression virginally dreamy. It lasts all of fifteen seconds before I collapse into a fit of giggles. Kade joins in, and, soon, the whole mess of us are busting a gut at our strange banter.

  Gathering my composure, I wink at the fool. “I love you, boo boo.”

  Standing from his stool, he blows me a kiss. “Love you totes more.”

  Rolling my eyes, I giggle. “Don’t let the girls hear you say that. Or they’re liable to think Uncle Kade’s hip.”

  Winking back dramatically, he then bounces his perfectly symmetrical eyebrows. “Well. I totes am.” Pivoting on his boot heel, he makes a mad dash down the hall. “Did you hear it, girls? Uncle Kade is totes cool!”

  Yep. That’s my best friend. Crazy. Weird. Perverted. And a dash of amazing.

  Not done with razzing, I two finger point to Bear, who’s grinning like a loon. The laugh lines around his eyes are heavily creased. “He’s your son. I blame you for dropping him on his head as a baby. The longer I know him, the odder he becomes.”

  “I think it’s you who brings out the best in him. Well, the best in us all.”

  “Bear’s right,” Dad adds.

  I fan my face.

  Oh. Look at the pregnant girl getting all emotional. Super. Great. Fantastico. Of course, they gotta be all sweet on me. Damn these adoring men.

  Opening my arms wide, I wave them forth with my fingers. Bear’s the first to wrap me in a warm, manly scented hug. His beard scratches my neck and then my cheek when he kisses me there. “Love you, darlin’. So glad you’re here, even if it ain’t under the best circumstances,” he mutters in my ear so only I can hear. Sucking back a stupid girly sniffle, I nod in agreement.

  Dad pats his lover’s butt as they switch places. Daddy’s hug is warm and gooey. Stuffing my face in his neck, I smell my father. Since I was a kid, he’s always smelt the same—like aftershave, wo
od, motor oil, and Marlboro Lights. It might sound unappealing, yet, to me, his daughter, who thought he was dead, he smells of life, of happiness, of fond memories.

  Pulling back, Daddy cups my jaw in both hands, matching eyes on mine. “Love you, peanut. Thanks for bein’ here.”

  “Love you, too, Dad.”

  Pressing a kiss to my upturned forehead, he then baps my nose with his index finger, winks, and returns to his stool.

  It’s time to get this cooking show on the road. I gotta feed my big men, Rosie, and the girls.

  Calling out orders in quick succession, Rosie finds me the mandolin, and I begin slicing these eggplants into even strips. It doesn’t take long before we’re stacking cheese, sauce, meat, and the purple veggie into a glass casserole dish. In an hour, we’ll be scarfing down one of the best meals I’ve eaten in ages. It’s been months since I baked eggplant lasagna. All that bubbly cheese and garlic is gonna give me mouthgasms lickety-split.

  Kat

  After Ryker left this morning, I escaped to my room for an hour to recoup before asking Rosie to go shopping. It took a lot out of me; spending that short amount of time with him. Seeing him wipe whipped cream from our daughter’s face will be a memory I’ll cherish forever. It was so simple—innocent. A gesture nobody would blink twice at. Except for me … who’s been the one to wipe my girls’ faces since he disappeared, leaving nothing but a damn note and a broken heart in his devastating wake. I’m the one to help blow their noses when they’re sick. Clean their dishes. Cook them breakfast. And, for one day, I didn’t have to worry about any of it. Not their clothes. Their shoes. If their hair was brushed. If they remembered to wear their necklaces. None of it was left up to me. Sure, Ryker shut down my alarm. But what he gifted me in return is more precious than the sparkliest diamond. As if spinning on a turnstile, that short memory has plagued me all day at the most inopportune times. Making my stomach dip, my heart expand, and everything feel oddly, dare I say—right? That very same feeling haunts me still as I sit in the quiet living room, on my favorite chair, reading yet another sci-fi romance. It was time to put the hot biker books to rest. When you’re visited by three or four weapon toting, leather wearing, hard asses each day, there’s not much left up to your imagination. Plus, I don’t need my thoughts to run any more rampant with shootouts. I’ve lived through enough drama, and got the stitches to prove it. Blue aliens are more my style at this point anyhow. At least that shit ain’t real. Oh. And did I forget to mention they have ribbed for her pleasure dicks, and a clit ticklin’ spur? Hell. Maybe these big velvety motherfuckers should be real. I dunno about you, but a two for one dick sounds mighty fine to me. Who am I kidding? Any cock sounds appealing. I’ve been laid a total of three times since Ryker left after Scarlett was born. And all of those times have been in the last year. To be honest, I’m surprised the vag hasn’t closed up shop by this point. Stitched herself together with steel thread. She’s gotta be tired of getting knocked up by Señor Assholio. After baby number three comes out, I’m getting my tubes tied. Then maybe I can find myself a decent boyfriend. Ha! That’s hilarious. Are you laughing, too? I’m gonna die alone at the rate I’m going. But at least I’ll have Kade by my side, flippin’ God the bird when the Grim Reaper comes a’knockin’.