He shrugs. "Yeah, but that doesn't matter if you're not going to use it. I'll just give it to someone else." He walks to the kitchen, reaches behind the counter and pulls out my old backpack. He brings it over to me. "Here you go."
Seeing it now, it looks worse than I remembered. And the smell. I'm a good foot away from it and can smell it from here. It reeks like rotting food and whatever's growing in there.
"Aren't you going to take it?" he asks, holding it in front of me.
"Um, actually, I think I'll go with this one." I point to the new one, which is still on my back.
"You said you didn't want it."
"I don't, but if you're just going to leave it outside, I might as well take it. I mean, if I found it I'd take it so..."
"So you'll take something you find but not something that's given to you?"
"Yeah. I guess."
"That doesn't make sense."
"Doesn't have to."
He cocks his head. "Why won't you take stuff? What happened to make you turn down what people give you?"
"Nothing." I hear the defensiveness in my tone and clear my throat. "I just don't like handouts."
"That backpack wasn't a handout."
"Then what was it?"
"A gift for you being nice to me."
"I was nice to you?"
He chuckles. "You sound surprised. Are you normally not nice?"
"I am to some people, but I wouldn't say I've been that nice to you."
"Sure you have. You had coffee with me. Dinner. You helped welcome me to town. For all that, I had to give you at least a small thank you gift."
"If you say so, although I'd say your standards are pretty low."
"My standards are high, actually, especially when it comes to people."
I don't know what he means and I don't want to ask. I take the backpack off and set it on the floor. "What's in here?"
"Open it up and see."
I unzip it and find beef jerky, candy bars, peanut butter, a squeeze bottle of jam, a jar of nuts, and other food that doesn't go bad.
"You bought me food," I say, zipping up the backpack and standing up.
"Just some snacks for when I come to visit."
"That's not why," I say, getting angry. "You got me food because you feel sorry for me. And you know what I hate more than anything?"
"People feeling sorry for you," he answers. "Pitying you. Looking down on you."
"Exactly." I kick the backpack. "So take the stupid food for yourself. I don't need it."
"Really? Is that why you search the garbage every day? Because you don't need food?"
"Fuck off," I say, yanking open the door. "I'm leaving."
"Raine, wait." He stands behind me. "If you don't want the food, I'll take it back. I'm not making you take it. I'm giving you the choice. I don't feel sorry for you. Or pity you. What I feel bad about is your situation and whatever got you into it." He pauses. "I don't know what happened but I know you're strong and smart and trying to figure out how to get back on your feet. You may have lost everything but you haven't lost your right to make decisions. Taking that food is a decision. That's all it is, Raine. Take it, leave it. It's up to you."
I go back inside, close the door, and turn to face him. "But that's the problem."
"What?"
"I don't trust myself to make decisions, not even with something as simple as whether or not to take a few candy bars and some beef jerky."
His brows draw together. "Why? Why don't you trust yourself?"
Looking down, I say, "I made some bad decisions."
"It's okay to make bad decisions. It's how we learn. We're given choices every day. Sometimes we make the right choice, sometimes we don't. That doesn't mean we stop making them."
I hadn't thought about it that way. I thought things were just happening to me and I wasn't making decisions but I guess I've been making them this whole time. Choosing to live in that alley. Taking care of Gladys. Deciding to fend for myself instead of beg. Those were all my decisions and they were actually good ones, or as good as they could be given my situation. So maybe I CAN make good decisions, but I still don't trust myself when it comes to letting people into my life. I told myself Gladys would be it. I wouldn't let anyone else in but her.
Miles picks up the backpack. "Do you want it or not? I'll take the food out if you don't want it."
"I want it. Although I don't know what I'll do with all that free time not spent searching the garbage." I half smile.
"What do you like to do?"
"Like for fun?"
"Yeah." He sets the backpack by the door and comes around in front of me. "I assume you like having fun."
"It's been so long since I've had it that I don't really know."
"Movies? Sports? Roller coasters? Any of those sound fun?"
"I like movies but I haven't been to one for over a year. Sports? Not at all. My dad used to bet on sports and if he lost he'd get really drunk and yell and throw shit until he passed out."
"I could see how that would ruin sports. I, myself, love sports, especially football. But I've never bet on a game and never would. I'm not a gambler. So if you ever want to try watching a game, just to see if you'd like it, I'd suggest you watch one with me."
"I'll keep that in mind."
He motions to the couch. "You want to sit down? I feel awkward standing here by the door, like we either need to leave or go sit down. My vote is to sit down."
"I guess I could for a minute or two." I go over to his couch and sink down on the soft leather. It's heavenly. So much better than sitting on a milk crate.
"Want anything to drink?" he asks, going to the kitchen. "I have water, soda, milk, beer."
"I'll take a soda."
He grabs a bottle from the fridge and brings it to me. "Want anything to eat?"
"We just ate."
"We didn't have dessert. All I have is ice cream. You want some?"
"Sure," I say, like it's no big deal, even though the very thought of having ice cream has my mouth watering. I love ice cream and haven't had it for forever.
"Cookies and cream okay?" he asks, handing me a huge bowl of it.
"Yeah, it's my favorite. But you didn't have to give me so much."
"Eat what you can. I'll save whatever's left for your next visit."
"I don't think I'll be coming over again."
"Why is that?" He sits beside me with an equally large bowl of ice cream.
"I don't think people in your building want some homeless girl hanging out here. This is a nice building. I'm sure rent cost a fortune."
"They don't get to tell me who I can and can't have over. And you're not homeless. You're just in an atypical living situation in which your home is a tent. Technically, that could be called camping."
I laugh. It shouldn't be funny that I live in a tent but the way he said it just now made it funny. And it's true. I AM living like a camper. Thinking of it that way doesn't sound so bad.