Chapter 38 Chapter 38
The scent of warm food filled the air, rich and earthy, and reminded me of something that seemed surreal. Stanley had come home with takeout—nothing extravagant, just burgers and fries and milkshakes from a humble diner that he told me he loved when he was a kid. We sat at the kitchen table, not the formal dining room, and I was grateful for the intimacy of it. The fluorescent light above cast a soft glow over the island where we were sitting, crinkling paper bags and steaming containers being unwrapped like Christmas presents.
"I don't want you to be too disappointed," Stanley said, holding out a paper plate. "I figured tonight wasn't the night for candles and tablecloths."
I shook my head and gave him my tired smile. "This is great. Really."
He nodded and pulled out a box of fries. The salty, potato smell wafted up and made my stomach protest in betrayal. I had not realized how hungry I was.
"So," he said after a few bites, "what was your comfort food as a kid?"
I looked down at my burger, now immersed in memory. "Fried plantain and eggs. Mum used to make it for me whenever I've had a bad day."
He grinned. "My grandmother made this terrible mac and cheese with way, way too much pepper. All of us hated it, but she assured us that it was 'good for the sinuses.' I still can't get through mac and cheese without expecting to sneeze halfway through."
I smiled softly. It was good—normal—to smile like that.
"Close to her?" I asked.
"Yeah. She adopted me after my parents split. Did not have a clue what to do with a seven-year-old boy, but she had a go. Showed me jazz, showed me how to iron a shirt and apologize when I had done something wrong."
He looked over at me then, his gaze warm. "You are the type who apologizes a lot. Even when you have done nothing wrong."
I turned away, chewing slowly. "I'm a mother. It's part of the job."
There was silence. Not uncomfortable. But heavy with understanding.
"It's hard," I continued, more to the food than to him, "being the protector and the provider. The nurturer and the warrior. Cam deserves better than someone who is barely existing."
"She has better," Stanley said to me, his voice rock-steady. "She has you."
Before I could reply, soft footsteps echoed from the hall.
Cam slipped into the kitchen, rubbing one eye, a wrinkle in her pajamas from sleeping in bed. Her gaze landed on Stanley right away, and her eyebrows knitted together.
I stood up. "Cam, this is Mr. Stanley. He. brought dinner."
She stood there quiet, glancing back and forth between the two of us. She was wary, that much was clear. What we had done before had rattled her to her bones.
"Hey, Cam," Stanley remarked in a casual tone. "I brought too much fries. You want some?"
She looked at the fries warily, then inched up slowly. She didn't sit, just stood near me.
"And," he went on, "there's dessert. But I only share with those who sit.".
A slow, unwilling smile pulled at Cam's mouth. She pulled the chair next to me out and sat up. Stanley nudged a napkin over with some fries on it. She carefully picked one off.
We didn't talk for a few minutes. Paper bag crinkle filled the room, the occasional slurp from milkshakes punctuating the silence.
Cam moved in closer to me. I rubbed her back.
"Stanley got into trouble too," I said quietly. "I believe he knows what it is like to be misunderstood."
He nodded, his eyes soft. "I hit a boy in fifth grade because he said we told everybody I wet my pants. It wasn't even true."
Cam's smile opened a bit farther. "Did you get into trouble?"
"Oh, yeah. Bad.".
By the time dessert came—a miniature box of chocolate cupcakes from a shop around the corner—Cam was loose, even to the point of dropping her shoulders. Stanley didn't attempt to speak; he simply handed her a cupcake and smiled goofily when he accidentally dropped the cover on the box.
She smiled. Barely, but it was sufficient.
Once Cam was settled back into bed and I'd spoken a million reassuring words to her, I returned to the kitchen where Stanley was rinsing out our cups.
"You didn't have to come," I murmured.
"I know," he said, drying his hands. "But I did want to."
I didn't know how to respond. No one had shown up like that in a while.
"I mean it, Stanley. Thanks. For dinner. For being…" I swallowed. "Nice."
He came closer, eyes scanning mine. Then, his face so soft, he took a misplaced lock of hair and tucked it behind my ear.
I stiffened—no fear, but shock. His thumb stroked the skin alongside my temple, and for one moment, I thought he was going to kiss me.
But he didn't.
Instead, he said to me, "Goodnight, Liana."
And he moved back.
"I used to want someone to show up," I blurted, my voice softer than I intended. "Just… show up and be. Not take everything away. Just be."
He stood in the doorway. Half-turned away. "And now?"
"Now I don't know what to do with someone who actually shows up."
His smile was small and informed. "You don't have to do anything. Just let me be here."
I walked him to the door, opened it, and watched him recede into the shadows.
And then I shut it, pressed my back against the wood, and slowly inhaled—because for the first time in weeks, months, maybe, I felt peaceful. Tenuous, guttering peace. And maybe something more: the beginning of trust.
And somehow I knew… Stanley wasn't done appearing.