Page 29 of Puck Daddies

She giggles, and damn, it’s hot. “Well done.”

Next stop is Mr. Pitts. He tries to give me ten dollars for bringing the paper with his lunch. I push it back across the small table, like always. “You pay with stories. Tell her about the year the Orioles almost killed you.”

“This is Meals on Wheels, not StoryCorps,” he grumbles, then launches into the story anyway. Meg laughs at the right place. He glows. He eats. It’s good to see—the old man is too skinny.

We hit the twins next. They open the door in matching pajamas and matching suspicion. “How many fights this week?” one asks.

“Practice doesn’t count,” the other says.

“Agreed,” Meg says before I can answer. She angles her head at me. “How many,notpractice.”

“One,” I say.

“That’s not true,” a twin says.

“He’s right, it’s not,” the other says.

Meg cuts in. “It’s one. I’m the judge. Food’s hot. Let’s get you fed.”

They roll their eyes and obey.

We run the rest of the route without anything weird. We knock, we hand off, we answer questions, we take notes for the office. She keeps the clipboard neat. She adds small comments I forgot to write last week:cat needs vet list; sidewalk ice at 1312; doorbell stuck 3rd floor.

She’s good at this. I knew she would be.

My head stops chewing on the ice times and starts lining up what matters. Food delivered, names remembered, the kid at 4D who needs a second milk because his grandma is dehydrated again. I cool off without thinking about it. It’s automatic.

That’s what Meg does to me. Always has.

On the way back to return the bags, she looks at my leg when I hit a red light, and it holds. “You good?”

“Quad’s tight.”

“You should have let the trainer do more.”

“How do you know I didn’t?”

“I know you.”

We drop the bags at the dock and sign out. The coordinator thanks us and hands me a stack of flyers for next week’s shelter event. Meg tucks them into her tote. We walk to the car and stand there a second.

“You want to hang out, or do you need to go back to the shop?”

She looks at my face and decides something. “Hang out,” she says. “I want to talk.”

Shit. “Okay.”

The drive is quiet. I put my hand on the back of her seat when I back into our spot. We go upstairs. The apartment smells like lemon cleaner and pancakes from this morning. The place is empty.

She kicks off her shoes. “You alright?”

“I’m better now.”

“Good.”

“What do you want to talk about?”

She sighs deep. “I think I need an extra pillow. I didn’t want to say anything to Oliver, because you know how he is?—”