Page 29 of Baxter's Right-Hand Man

Lorenzo and I weren’t friends, but at least I knew he was real. I saw him in action, caring for an old man he wasn’t related to, who hadn’t offered him anything other than dozens of stories about people he didn’t know.

I liked being in their company. It reminded me of being invited to a friend’s house for dinner as a kid and getting a peek at how they lived and interacted with each other. It was always different from my house, where my dad was usually drunk and slurring every other word in his lounge chair in front of the television while my mom spoke above the canned laughter…asking about my day at school.

My mother had always confused me. She’d ask questions as if she cared, but she never stuck up for me when my dad got off his ass for beer number six, shoved me around, criticized my hair, my posture, my general…me-ness. I’d hated her for that.

Okay, that wasn’t helping.

I turned off the TV, grabbed my phone, and moseyed through my house, my bare feet slapping on the hardwood floor as I climbed the stairs to my bedroom. I scratched my nuts through the cotton fabric and thought about jerking off.

I pulled the elastic down and cupped my balls. It wouldn’t take much to get my motor running. A little porn would do it.Nah. I should work out again. Then I’d take a shower and daydream about Lorenzo’s pouty mouth sucking my dick and—

Mr. G is stable. I haven’t seen him, but Enid says he’s in good spirits.

I read the message twice before responding.Glad to hear it. Are you at work?

It’s seven o’clock. I’m off.

Really? I glanced at my watch. My blinds were drawn in my room, but my whole house was practically made of glass. You’d think I’d have noticed it was dark outside. I hadn’t. Fuck, I didn’t know what I’d done all day. I couldn’t decide if that was alarming or depressing. Maybe both.

What are you doing?I typed.

I’m making dinner. Albondigas soup.

Meatballs?

Yes, it’s delicioso.

And suddenly, I was hungry.I bet.You make it from scratch?

Of course. I wouldn’t know where to buy it.

Welcome to the 21st century. Anything you feel like eating is a tap away.

Homemade is better, he replied.This is my grandmother’s recipe. Trust me, you will never taste albondigas soup like this.

Invite me over.

Oops. I wasn’t sure why I typed that.

Way to make things awkward, Allen, I mused.

Three dots danced, then disappeared. Twice, three times…I set my cell on my nightstand and headed for the shower.

When I picked my phone up again, he’d finally responded.Very funny.

I’m not joking. I’m free. I’ll even bring wine.

Okay. I was sort of joking. I didn’t think Lorenzo would take me seriously. Ten-year-old me might not have thought twice about finagling a dinner invitation I never planned to reciprocate, but I liked to think I was a smoother operator nowadays.

I expected another eye-roll emoji…not a phone call.

I answered on the first ring. “You’re calling me? I didn’t think we were phone-call friends.”

“We’re not friends at all,” he retorted. “I can’t read your vibe. I think you’re kidding, but if you’re not…”

“If I’m not?”

“You could…come over. But don’t come if you were kidding. And don’t come if you feel sorry for me for suggesting it ’cause now that I’m saying this out loud, I’m hearing how ridiculous it sounds. You probably have fancy plans to eat gourmet grub anyway and although my soup is freaking amazing, it’s not gourmet and I—”