When I open the door, she’s standing with her feet centered between the remaining letters on the W…E mat looking down at them. “We,” she says. “Do you think it means something?”
I’m pretty sure I’m awake now, but the question catches me off guard. She lifts her chin and trains her blue eyes on me. I’d forgotten how deep they are, her eyes. “What do you mean?”
She doesn’t move. “I mean the rest of the letters are gone. As if removed purposely. All that’s left is ‘we.’”
Her words ring in my ears. All that’s left is we. Her. And me. I shrug. “I suppose that’s true. All that’s left, tonight anyway, is we. You and me.” She smiles, and I feel the acceptance of my apology before I even say it. “I’m sorry. It was a misunderstanding. I was laughing at her jealousy, not at you. I should’ve come to you sooner. Life’s been—”
She cuts me off with a finger held to my lips and repeats, “We.” And then she steps off the mat and enters my apartment. “What’s for dinner, Seamus?”
As she follows me to the kitchen, I scratch the back of my neck, wondering the same thing. “I’m not sure. We’ll have to make do. I haven’t been to the grocery store in a week.”
She shrugs. “I’m easy to feed.” She’s always agreeable, and I wonder if that’s a direct reflection of her parents and how she was raised, if it’s just her, or if it’s something she works at.
I open the cupboard and the refrigerator and survey. “Looks like ramen, mac and cheese, cereal, oatmeal, or bologna sandwiches. Oh, or toast. Or any combination of the aforementioned.”
Looking over my shoulder to gauge her reaction, I find her smiling. “How about mac and cheese bologna sandwiches?”
“What do you mean, mac and cheese inside the sandwich?”
“Yeah,” she confirms. “I’ve never had that. But we have to fry the bologna. I don’t like cold, dirty meat. It makes me gag.”
I bark out a surprised laugh because that could be interpreted many ways and I don’t want to dive straight into the gutter, but I can’t help it. “Dirty meat?”
She laughs with me, blushing a bit, but standing her ground. “Yeah, dirty meat. Bologna, hot dogs, pepperoni. You never really know what’s inside. It’s dirty meat.”
Her rosy cheeks are adorable. “Gotcha. Please don’t mention that to Kira. She lives on bologna and hot dogs, and I can’t afford to cut any foods out of her limited diet.”
Faith fries the bologna while I make the mac and cheese. We even toast the bread, so everything about the sandwich is hot.
When we sit down on the couch with our plates, Faith assesses her sandwich. “Seamus, we might be on to something here. This is classy on a budget.”
Raising my eyebrows, I look around the room. “If you hadn’t noticed, that’s how I roll.”
She laughs as she bites into her sandwich and talks only after she’s swallowed. “Oh, I noticed. Me, too,” she adds with a wink.
While we eat, I decide now’s a good time to find out a little bit more about her. “Where are you from Faith?”
“Kansas City,” she answers.
I stop chewing and look at her because surely she’s kidding. She doesn’t look like a Midwesterner. “Really?”
“Really. I grew up there. I moved here a few months ago.”
“What brought you to California? You’re a long way from home.”
She smiles at me like she knows I’m going to be amused by what she’s about to say. “Research.”
I smile in return. “Ah, of course, research. Do your parents still live in Kansas City?”
She shakes her head as she chews a bite of her sandwich.
“Where do they live?”
“I grew up in foster care.”
The words, even though there wasn’t negativity behind them, concern me. I’m familiar with the foster care system due to my job. Counseling sheds light on all facets of my students’ lives. Most foster care parents are loving, giving individuals who want what’s best for the child. But, like anything else in life, there are always the bad apples. The ones responsible for tarnishing the reputation of the good. Those are the ones who stick out in my mind. The ones who shouldn’t be allowed around other human beings, let alone children. “How was that?” My stomach twists as I wait for her answer.
“Let’s just say, some families were better than others.” She takes in my worried eyes and adds quickly, “Some people are really good at making you feel valued. Like you’re worth something. And some people feed and house you.” She shrugs. “I survived. And it made me that much more grateful for the ones who cared. Gratitude isn’t a gift to the receiver, it’s a gift to the giver.”
“How old are you, Faith?” I’m more curious than ever now.
“Twenty-two.”
“How’d you get so wise in twenty-two years?” I mean it, she’s a deep thinker.
“Old soul.” She winks. “Growing up in and aging out of the foster care system is like dog years. About two to your one. Technically, I’m forty-four.”
I love her sense of humor. “Good to know. Should I start calling you ma’am? That’s how I address my elders.”