They ate facing each other with the steam from their cooking fogging the large kitchen window. Everything tasted incredible: from the dense, fragrant bread to the rich soup, spiked with a little kick that pulled it all together.
“Where did you learn to cook?” she asked, blowing on a spoonful of soup.
Pete shrugged. “My mom. We cooked together a lot when I was growing up. When I was a kid I hated it, but now I’m thankful.”
“I’m thankful too,” she said. She buttered another slice of bread. “This is amazing.”
He grinned. “It’s super easy to make,” he said.
She gave him a skeptical look. “Says you.”
They ate in silence for a moment. “Did your dad cook?” he asked.
Cassidy laughed. “No.” Her dad was helpless in the kitchen. “My brother did, though. I guess he’s like you in that he likes to eat, so out of necessity, he learned to cook.”
“Is your stepmom a good cook?”
“She’s okay. I mean, there were four of us, so I’m sure it was tough to please us all.”
“Stepsiblings?” Pete asked.
“Yeah. Rebecca and Reeve. They’re younger than me and Quinn.” Cassidy didn’t have much contact with either of them, especially Reeve who had gotten mixed up with drugs and was unpredictable. Her family still gathered for Christmas each year, but only because Rebecca insisted that not doing so would break her stepmom Pamela’s heart. Cassidy never told Rebecca about the difficulty of returning to the house her father had died in, to walk those same walls that had felt like a prison while growing up.
“Where do they live?”
“Rebecca’s in Reno. Reeve is, well . . . ” Cassidy hesitated, unwilling to spend her evening talking about him. “He moves around a lot.”
Pete nodded. “What was it like growing up in a blended family?”
Cassidy thought carefully before answering. “Busy,” she replied simply to steer him away. Who wanted to hear about how a family fell apart? “Are you still close with your folks?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said, “the farm keeps them busy so they can’t get over here very often, but I try to go out there a few times a year. Christmas most years, and I was just there for the crush in October.” He smiled. “They still read all my stories.”
Cassidy smiled back. She knew her father would have followed her research too and been capable of deep conversation about her projects and ideas.
Their bowls and beer bottles empty, Cassidy cleared the table, and the two of them washed the dishes. Standing side by side, the energy between them fizzed like a live wire. In the reflection from the window above the sink, Cassidy snuck a peek at Pete’s profile: the slender nose, serene eyes, and soft lips. Her stomach did a little flip.
“Would you like to go for a walk?” Pete asked once they finished.
“Sure,” Cassidy said, realizing that she would have said yes to cartwheels through the living room.
They walked to the porch to pull on their raincoats, hats, and boots before stepping outside.
Eight
Casa de Rocas, Seattle
November 29, 2014
Cassidy led Pete through the neighborhood of established homes, the sidewalks cracked and buckled in sections from the roots of the towering maples and evergreen trees. Casually, Pete took her hand, and they swung between them, the heat from his skin spreading into her whole body. A fine mist fell all around them, the air smelling like iron and wet earth. Cassidy heard the water running into the sewer grates and the shush of passing cars on the busier thoroughfares a block away.
They passed several roundabouts. “I read your profile of that homeless family today,” Cassidy said. Juno received the Seattle Times every Sunday and graciously left it out for the others to read when he finished. Today’s featured Pete’s story of a family that slowly, through bad luck and a few poor choices, had lost their home, and then everything else. “I can’t believe they endured all of that,” she added, shuddering. “How did you find out all that stuff?”
Pete’s eyes sparkled. “I have a contact at County Health.”
“I would think people would be too scared—or ashamed even—to talk to you.”
“They are, at first,” he said, giving her a look. “The key is being willing to listen.”
“But how are you going to link this to government corruption?” she asked.
Pete laughed. “Stay tuned,” he said. “The sequel comes out next Sunday.”
“C’mon,” she begged as they passed under a streetlight.
“No way. I would hate to ruin your reading experience.” Then he stopped. “Wait, are you one of those people who skips to the back of a book to find out the ending?”
Cassidy bit her lip.
“No!” Pete said, his eyes dancing.
“Not all the time!” Cassidy protested. “Just . . . sometimes I need to know.” Hopefully he wouldn’t ask why.
“You need serious help,” Pete said in mock seriousness. “Good thing I’m here to show you the way.”
Cassidy laughed, her mind abuzz with what might be happening. They were standing under the streetlight while the mist fell like tiny bits of silver all around them. Pete’s hood and shoulders were beaded with droplets. He stepped close and their lips touched, his smooth and wet from the rain. The hum of the bulb above them and car noises from the street faded away as the kiss continued. A tingle of electricity traveled over her skin, and she shivered.
“Are you cold?” Pete said, looking at her with concern.
“A little,” she lied.
She kissed him back, and their bodies moved
