“Where’s Stormy?” she asked, thinking it prudent to distract both of them. At this rate, they wouldn’t get through dinner without jumping each other’s bones.
“Napping,” he said, and nodded toward the crate in the corner. The crate was usually kept in his bedroom, and she frowned at the unfamiliar sight of it in the den. His next words cleared up her confusion and melted her heart, “I didn’t want her to feel left out or alone, so I thought she could snooze in here while we have our dinner.”
“That doesn’t help with separation anxiety, you know?” she felt obligated to point out, and he grimaced.
“I know. But she looked so sad when she knew I was going to leave the room and…”
“Miles,” Charity interrupted him and lay a tentative hand on his bare arm. “I think you’re the one with separation anxiety.”
Her words made him laugh as she had intended them to, but she couldn’t bring herself to remove her hand from his arm. Instead, her palm slid to his and, he entwined his fingers with hers.
“You’re right. It’s something I need to work on. Tomorrow. For tonight she’s fine. She’s had her dinner, her toilet break, and she’s snuggled up with her heated beanbag, fast asleep. I’d hate to disturb her.”
Charity angled her body toward his and cupped his jaw with her free hand.
“You’re such a softie,” she teased, and he lifted her captured hand to his lips to kiss her knuckles.
“Sit down,” he urged, tugging her toward the coffee table. They sank onto the heap of cushions.
Her eyes did another awed tour of the room, “You’ve done so much work.”
“I knew you’d appreciate my paltry attempts at power conservation,” he said, with a cheeky wink and she laughed.
“It would have been even more appreciated when we were running on a generator, but thank you nonetheless.”
He grinned unrepentantly and released her hand to gesture toward the cloche.
“You hungry?”
“A little.”
“Good, because I’ve prepared a feast.”
Charity tilted her head and stared at the cloche and then glanced around the room to see if he had any other containers stashed away. But nope…it was just this one, lonely cloche. She couldn’t imagine it containing anything remotely feast like.
“Okay, close your eyes,” he instructed her, and she blinked. Not certain she had heard him correctly.
“What?”
“Close your eyes.”
“You’re making quite the production out of this, aren’t you?”
“This used to be Hughie and Vicki’s favorite meal when they were kids. I’m the only one who could make it exactly how they liked it.”
She sighed and covered her face with both hands.
“No peeking.”
“Oh my God, I had no idea you had such a flair for the dramatic.”
She heard the faint metal on metal ping as he lifted the lid.
“Don’t look until I tell you to,” he said. And she sighed in fake vexation. Truthfully, she was enjoying every moment of this. There was a slosh of liquid, and she assumed he was filling up the wineglasses.
“Okay, three, two…two and a ha—”
“Miles!” Her voice was shaking with suppressed laughter as she tried, but failed, to sound exasperated. She was delighted by this unexpectedly whimsical side of him.
“Spoilsport! Fine. Open your eyes.”
She lowered her hands and opened her eyes and then stared, uncomprehendingly, at the…feast(?) in front of her.
A precarious pyramid of sandwiches, each a neatly sliced triangle, stacked one on top of the other.
“Sandwiches?” Her voice was faint, and she cleared her throat and looked up to meet his expectant gaze.
“Not just any old sandwiches,” he stated proudly. “These are peanut butter, strawberry jam, and banana sandwiches.”
“Oh.” She shifted her focus to the wineglasses, and her lips twitched. Each expensive, handcrafted crystal glass was filled to the brim with milk.
“Tuck in,” he invited, and stacked a few sandwiches onto his plate. Charity took a couple of slices and sat back, folding her legs crosswise before taking a hearty bite from the generously filled sandwich.
The flavors sang on her tongue, reminding her of her carefree childhood. So much nostalgia in just one bite.
She grinned at him, certain her delight must be plain to see.
“This is so good,” she enthused around a mouthful of bread. The peanut butter stuck to the roof of her mouth and teeth, and she didn’t even care. Instead, she washed it down with some milk and went in for another bite.
He grinned at her. She laughed and impulsively reached across the table to thumb a smudge of jam away from the corner of his mouth. He turned his head to flick the jam off her thumb with the tip of his tongue.
The casual intimacy of their actions astonished her. Even more astounding? The fact that she didn’t mind it at all. She withdrew her hand and, holding his gaze hostage, deliberately sucked the thumb he had just licked into her mouth. His breath caught, and his eyes sparked, then darkened to almost black.
“These are seriously amazing,” she said, her voice embarrassingly throaty after their sexy interplay. “Takes me back to my childhood. Although my mother never added banana. I don’t know why not. It adds so much flavor.”
“Like I said, I used to make these for Hughie and Vicki. I use a different knife for each spread, and they have to cover the entire surface of the slice. Corner to corner.” He grinned wryly, flashing her that adorable dimple. “You may have noticed that Hugh is a little particular.”
She raised her brows at that understatement.
“He has OCD, right?” She instantly regretted the question. Mrs. Cole’s reticence was so ingrained that it felt improper asking him such a personal question.
Miles didn’t seem to mind though. Instead, he nodded and took a swig of milk before talking again.
“Yes. It went untreated for much too long. None of his teachers picked up on it. Or maybe they just ignored it. He was ten before I dragged my mum and Hughie to a clinic and demanded to see a child psychiatrist. Mum had been working such long hours she was happy to just avoid the issue. He was healthy and happy for the most part, but she didn’t see the quirks and didn’t recognize how much they were holding him back. He was being bullied at school because of it and then later, because he was gay. I always knew he was gay, I think before Hugh knew. And it was confusing and distressing for him to be called names he barely understood. It pissed me the hell off that he wasn’t allowed to discover his sexuality in his own time. Kids can be fucking arseholes at times. Anyway, the lack of control at school fed his obsessive-compulsive tendencies.
“When he was younger—it’s not as bad now—he also suffered from something called brumotactillophobia. Which means he had aversion to his food touching. It took a long time to get him to accept a sandwich like this. With everything smooshed together so haphazardly. But money was tight, and we had to make do with what we had. These were a cheap, tasty meal so Hugh and I sat down one day and discussed how we could make this work for him. Different knives for each spread, no messy oozing on the sides—let me tell you, that’s fucking hard to avoid—the banana slices have to be perfectly uniform, nine on each sandwich and arranged in three rows of three. And of course, they have to be sliced into perfectly even triangles. With three whole and three perfectly halved banana slices on each side.
“I’ve never gotten out of the habit of preparing these sandwiches to Hugh’s exact preference. Even though I can’t remember the last time I made these for him. They bring back some pretty great memories though.”
“You and your siblings are so close,” Charity said, touched by the story and what it said about the man sitting across from her.
“I don’t think we are,” he responded with a nonchalant lift of his shoulders. “Hugh and Vicki are tight, they share a flat and talk all the time. I fed them,
dressed them, disciplined them, helped them with their homework and school projects. I think they find it hard to think of me as a big brother when I was more of a parental figure than our mum. Don’t get me wrong, she tried her best, but she had her hands full keeping food on the table and a roof over our heads. Looking out for the little ones was the least I could do for her.”
“But…who looked out for you?” she asked, her voice tentative. The question seemed to flummox him, and he stared at her for a long moment as if he couldn’t quite fathom the meaning behind her words.
“I didn’t need…”
“You were eleven,” she interrupted.
“I was old for my age. By that time, I’d already spent a year taking care of my terminally ill father, while helping mum with the kids.”
That was heartbreaking. He had never had a childhood. And as far as she could tell he rarely allowed himself time to let loose now either.
“What do you do for fun?”
“Fun?”
“You know, fun. Something you do for the sheer enjoyment of it.”
“I have my audiobooks. And I like to hike. And the thrill of a new acquisition can’t be beaten.”
“When did you start listening to your fantasy books?”
“I used to read them when I was a kid. But as I got older, I got busier and I didn’t have much time for reading. About eight years ago, I happened to see a commercial for my favorite author’s new book. When I saw it was available on audiobook, I didn’t hesitate. I haven’t looked back since.”
“Why fantasy?”
“You’re full of questions tonight,” he said, with a tiny smile, taking a nibble from his fourth sandwich. Charity was still on her second.
“Just interested.”
“Why do you think I love fantasy novels?”
“Because it was so very distant and different from your reality?”
He didn’t reply but his smile widened.
They were both silent for a few moments as they polished off a few more sandwiches.
“I think you underestimate the strength of your relationship with your siblings,” she said, and he lifted a quizzical eyebrow.
“Why do you say that?”
“I’ve seen the way they vie for your attention, and constantly try to include you in their activities. I always thought you were just being a total douche when you’d brush them off and sit in your corner with your headphones. I assumed you were working and didn’t have the time or patience to spend time with them.”
“No…I…” His voice trailed off, and his brow puckered into a formidable frown. One that would have had her running scared a week ago. “I was listening to my books. Not working…I always thought they were just inviting me along because they felt they had to. I’m not exactly Mr. Hip and Cool.”
She chuckled. “The fact that you used the words ‘hip’ and ‘cool’ kind of highlights the point you were making about being neither of those things. They weren’t inviting you out of some sense of duty. They always looked so crestfallen whenever you rejected their invitations.”
“I wasn’t rejecting them,” he denied, his voice heating defensively.
“I’m just telling you how it looked to me. And possibly to them?”
“Fuck.” The word was rife with remorse, self-recrimination and frustration.
Feeling terrible for pointing out what had seemed so obvious to her, Charity covered his hand on the table with her own and squeezed reassuringly. She didn’t speak, lending silent support because she could sense that he needed that more than any words.
He flashed her a tight smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“I sometimes—” He stopped and cleared the gruffness from his throat. “I’m not always great around people. Not even my own family. When I was a kid, I kept my emotions under lock and key. My mother did so much for us, she didn’t need to be burdened with my fears and frustrations. Not when she had so much to deal with already. Work, Hugh’s needs, and then Vicki started acting out when she was older. She needed to be able to depend on me, you know?”
“I know.”
“I was old enough to understand what it would mean for us if she lost any of her jobs and couldn’t make the rent. We’d all be out on the streets, or worse, the kids and I would have been taken from her.” Charity found it telling how he often referred to his siblings, but not himself, as kids. He really had been old before his time and she found that knowledge more than a little tragic.
“She has no idea,” he continued, unaware of her troubled thoughts. “That I know how many nights she came home and locked herself in the bathroom and cried. I didn’t want her to have to worry about what was happening at home with the kids. I strove to be dependable. Took care of the little ones, got good grades, even though it meant staying up till the early hours studying. I promised myself that one day I’d be successful and my mother would never have to work or worry again.”
“You were. So why don’t you cut yourself some slack once in a while, Miles?”
“I’m afraid…” His voice faded as if he was having second thoughts about what he had been about to say.
“Of?” she prompted him.
“I’m afraid that if I stand still or stop for too long, I’ll lose everything I’ve built. And I won’t be able to take care of them anymore.”
“Do they still need you to take care of them?”
His forehead puckered, and he shook his head abruptly.
“I’m sorry, I’ve been banging on about this for way too long. This was supposed to be a relaxing evening. Tell me about you.” He looked troubled for a second before adding, awkwardly, “You, before everything.”
“Before my marriage you mean?” she asked frankly.
“I didn’t think you’d want to discuss that with me now. Or ever. I mean, it’s up to you if you…shit. Sorry, I told you I’m no good at this.”
“At what?”
“Conversation. Seriously, I’m best in front of a computer, figuring out ways to acquire the companies I want. Working out if they’re worth salvaging or just hacking into pieces and selling off. I’m great with numbers, legalese, seeing the bigger picture. But I leave the interpersonal stuff to my right-hand man, Bryan. I am truly abysmal at peopling.”
She laughed at that.
“You’re doing fine. I have only one sister. Older. Her name is Faith. She has this gorgeous little girl, Grace.” She stopped, finding it harder than she had expected to talk about them. Especially when the pang of yearning and loss in her heart intensified at the thought of them.
“How old is Grace?” His voice was quiet, soothing and perfectly pitched to get her talking again. And he said he was bad at “peopling”. He didn’t seem to know himself very well.
“Five,” she replied, setting aside her half-eaten sandwich and drinking down the last of her milk. “Uh, nearly six. It’s her birthday in a couple of weeks’ time.”
“That’s a great age,” he said, with a smile. “She irritated the ever loving shit out of me at the time, but when I think back now, Vicki was an adorable six-year-old. With her curly mop of black hair and her irrepressible smile and constant questions. She had such a thirst for knowledge. Still does actually. What is Grace like?"
“I haven’t seen her in a while. Not since she was three. I mean we skype but…that’s not the same is it? She doesn’t have the patience to sit and talk to this stranger on the computer. She knows me, but, not really.”
“Do you have any pictures?”
She nodded and reached into the front pouch of her hoodie for her phone. She didn’t even know why she had it on her, she rarely received any calls or messages.
She flicked through her photo album and found a picture of her niece. Grace was wearing a pink tutu, fairy wings, and mismatched Wellingtons. She was grinning widely at whomever was taking the picture.
She silently handed the phone to Miles, who took it without comment. He flipped it around and stared at the picture with a frown
of concentration.
“She’s pretty cute,” he said, flashing Charity a grin. “She has your eyes.”
“We all have my mom’s coloring; her mother—our ouma—was a mixed-race woman from the Cape Flats. And our oupa was a second-generation Lebanese man. Faith and I inherited our dad’s height. But his blond hair and hazel eyes didn’t stand a chance against our mom’s dominant genes.” She smiled fondly as she thought of her parents. She missed them so much, and it felt wonderful to talk about them. “Because they faced so much discrimination after their marriage during the later apartheid era, they moved to Canada for a few years. But they returned just before the first democratic election. I was about four when we moved back. Faith was two. I have only the vaguest recollection of it.”
“Have you seen any of your family in the last three years?” he asked, after handing her phone back.
Charity swallowed and ran a finger over her niece’s image.
“No. I speak with them, FaceTime sometimes…Faith wants me to come to Gracie’s sixth birthday party.”
“You should go.”
“I can’t.”
“Charity…”
“Miles we’ve known each other for about a minute,” she pointed out shortly, pocketing her phone, before levelling a blistering glare at him. “You don’t get to have an opinion about this, okay?”
“I’m sorry.”
His softly spoken apology took the wind out of her sails and robbed her of the fuel she needed to stoke her fiery indignation. She sagged and buried her face in her palms taking a moment to compose herself.
He didn’t say another word, merely sat quietly and waited for her to speak.
“No. I’m the one who’s sorry, Miles.” She dropped her hands and met his eyes. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I get a little defensive. My family has been so hurt and confused by all of this. But I find it hard to be around them and their sympathy. They think I’m grieving for him. And how do I explain to them that I would never mourn him, that I don’t miss him, and that I’m so damned grateful to be free of him?”
She made a despairing sound and wiped at her wet eyes.
“I didn’t want to talk about him tonight. I don’t want to talk about him ever.”
The Best Next Thing Page 18
