Role Playing(38)

He grinned. “You thought I was a kid?” he mouthed.

She covered the mouthpiece. “I thought you were twenty, all right? Or twenty-one. Young.”

I’m old enough to be your mother!

It was kind of hilarious.

“You want to send her a picture of me? My address?” he asked softly, not wanting to interrupt.

She looked over at him, surprised.

“Is that him?” the woman yelled. “Put him on the phone!”

“Oh my God, I am not putting him on the phone,” Boggy said, sounding mortified. “It’s fine, I promise. I will call you tonight.”

“You’re goddamned right you are,” the woman said. “I went out on a pee break to make sure you weren’t being murdered. YOU ARE TELLING ME EVERYTHING.”

“I’ll, erm, send you a pic,” Boggy said. “Love you, talk tonight.”

“GRRRR!”

Boggy cut off the call, then held up her cell. “Um . . .”

He smiled as she took a picture. “Is there anything else I can do?” he asked gently. “I should’ve thought it through. Going to any stranger’s house is going to be, y’know, kind of fraught. Especially for women. But you were Boggy, and I figured if anybody could handle herself, it would be you. Of course, you’re not exactly the way I, uh, envisioned you. So if there’s something else I can do to help you feel safe . . .”

“No, that’s fine,” she said. “And to be honest, I already sent my friend your address and told her where I was, before you walked in.” She said this with her chin up, completely unapologetic.

“Good,” he said, and meant it. “I mean, bad that you had to, that it’s the world we live in. But safety first.”

She looked at him, and her expression softened a fraction before she cleared her throat, looking grumpy again. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“That you’re old!”

He stared. Then he burst out laughing. Jesus, this woman. His chest warmed. Even in person, she cracked him up with her bluntness and energy.

“Not . . . oh, shut up. You know what I meant,” she grumbled.

“Actually, that never occurred to me either,” he said.

“How old are you?” she asked carefully.

“Fifty this May.”

“Holy shit,” she said. “You’re older than I am!”

“If it’s any comfort,” he said, “all this time, I’ve thought you were in your eighties.”

She spluttered. “What?”

“Well, you kept saying you were old enough to be my mother,” he countered. “My mother’s the one who gave me your contact info. So . . .”

“Oh my God,” she muttered, rubbing her hands over her face. “Rosita and Mac are going to have a field day when they find this out.”

He wasn’t sure who any of those people were, but at least she didn’t seem scared or angry at this point. He liked that the tension seemed to leave her body. He’d take embarrassment over fear any day, and with luck, he’d be able to get her past even that. “The soup smells good.”

“It’s pho. Have you had it before?”

“It’s been a long time,” he admitted. “There used to be a place in Issaquah that had some decent stuff. Miss that place.”

“You lived on the west side?” she said.

He grinned. “Even worked in Seattle for a while.”

They studied each other. Then she made a wave with her arm.

“Do you need to sit?”

“Nah, this is fine.” He took a deep inhale.

“Well, the noodles need time to soak, and I’m going to get a plate to put out the toppings. Do you have a cutting board?”

He nodded. She made dainty piles of herbs—mint, a sort of dark purple-green basil, sliced jalape?os, wedges of lime. She arranged them on a plate, her movements deft, with purpose.

“I don’t suppose you have sriracha?” she asked.

“In the fridge,” he said, then watched as she opened it, whistling a low note.

“You weren’t kidding about being out of food. Do you just . . . not eat, normally?”

He laughed. “I go out a lot, I’ll admit. And I buy groceries every couple of days, or I have ramen.”

“I tend to stock up, and I never go out,” she said. Each word came out grudgingly, like she still blamed him for not being some pimply-faced teenager. “So I cook a lot. Or I have a lot of bread and butter. Or I, ah, forget to eat.”

He frowned. “That’s not healthy.”

“Hey, I like carbs,” she said.

“No, I mean skipping meals isn’t healthy,” he said, then took a deep breath. “Sorry. I’m a nurse—used to be a nurse. Health is kind of a thing for me.”

“Says the man who has no food in his house,” she pointed out, and he grinned.

“You wouldn’t be Boggy if you didn’t call me on my shit, I guess.”

She tilted her head. “Maggie,” she said, with a tiny quirk of a smile. “My name’s Maggie. Maggie Le.”

“Huh.” He held out his hand. “Hi. Officially, I mean.”