“Tagged you,” I say.
She pulls out her phone.
“You should make your profile public,” I say.
“Why?”
“Because my followers will want to know you.”
“I’m a private person, Braden.”
“Not anymore.”
I hope she understands the truth of those words. If she wants to “date” me, she’s going to be in the public eye. Kay Brown accosting her at her workplace is clear evidence of the situation.
She lifts her eyebrows. “I didn’t sign up for this.”
I laugh. I really, really laugh. The things she says… “You did, though. You wanted to date, Skye. This is what dating me is like.” I thrust my phone back in my pocket. “In fact, I’m on my way to do some charity work. Why don’t you join me?”
“You do charity work?”
“Does that surprise you?”
“No.”
Right. Her eyebrows nearly shooting off her forehead gives her away. But why would this surprise her?
“I give a lot of money to charity,” I say, “but there’s no substitute for diving in and getting your hands dirty.”
She looks down at her work clothes. “I’m not really dressed to get my hands dirty.”
“Just an expression, Skye. Though I do help with a community garden in my old neighborhood, that’s not what I’m doing today.”
“Yeah? What are you doing today?”
“You mean ‘what are we doing today?’”
She smiles. “Okay, what are we doing today?”
“Wait and see.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I remain mum about the plans while we finish our lunch. Once we leave the restaurant, Christopher picks us up and drives us to a food pantry in South Boston.
I know the place well.
My mother brought Ben and me to this place when I was a little boy, but I don’t advertise that fact.
“I come here once a week for an hour and hand out food,” I tell Skye. “Let’s go.”
We exit the car and walk past the line of people waiting and into the building.
Several people rush to greet me.
“Nice to see you, Mr. Black,” Denny, a young man who volunteers often, says.
I wave and give him a pat on the back.
“Braden!” Cheryl, who runs the place, grabs my hand. “I see you’ve brought a friend.”
“Cheryl, this is Skye.”
Cheryl holds out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Skye.”
“Cheryl’s an old friend,” I say. “We used to be neighbors.”
“When he was just a little guy,” Cheryl says. “We’re all so proud of his success.”
Skye’s good. She hides her shock well from Cheryl, but I can still see it. I’m connected to this woman in a way that’s new to me, hypersensitive to her every reaction.
This time, it’s not as frightening as it was when I first made the realization. It’s more enlightening. Makes my chest tighten.
“You all had a hand in it,” I say to Cheryl.
“He’s an amazing person,” she says to Skye. “Never forgets his roots. His donations keep us in business. We’re able to help more people than ever these days.”
Skye smiles.
She’s happy about this side of me, and that makes me happy. I’ve never brought a woman to the food pantry. Never had the desire to.
I grab a shopping cart. “This place means a lot to me. Come on, Skye. I’ll show you the ropes.” I take the cart to the person at the head of the line. “I’m Braden.” I hold out my hand.
A young woman carrying a toddler places the child in the buggy seat and then shakes my hand. “Elise.”
“How many people in your household, Elise?” I ask.
“Just Benji and me.”
Benji.
The name shifts me back in time. Benji. My mother called my brother Benji. Brady and Benji.
Each of us took one of her hands when we came here to get free food from the volunteers.
“It’s Brady and Benji!” someone always said, handing us each a Dum Dum sucker.
We lived for those sweets each week.
I have happy memories of this place. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized we came here because Mom and Dad couldn’t afford to feed us.
This Benji has light-brown hair and blue eyes. “And how are you today, Benji?” I hold out my hand to him.
He looks away.
“I’m sorry,” his mother says. “He’s shy.”
“Not a problem. I was a shy kid myself. This is Skye.”
“Hi.” She holds out her hand to Elise. “Nice to meet you.”
Elise shakes her hand weakly. She’s a pretty young woman wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. Benji’s hair is combed and his face is clean. Elise takes pride in her little family, like my mother always did.
“You’ll need some powdered milk for Benji,” I say. “We’ll have fresh milk soon, once the new refrigeration unit is installed. I’m so sorry for the inconvenience. Refrigeration is down during installation.”
“Benji doesn’t like milk,” Elise says. “I wish he’d drink it.”
“Not a problem. We can give you some sugar-free chocolate flavoring to put in the milk. Guaranteed to please.” I should know. I hated milk, too, as a kid. Strawberry Quik was its own food group as far as I was concerned.
I lead the way down the first aisle. Skye follows, walking next to Elise.
I don’t wonder about Elise and Benji’s story. I already know. Life is tough sometimes. I don’t ask questions because people don’t want to talk about these circumstances. Benji’s father may be in the picture or he may not be. It’s not our business at the shelter to ask. We simply supply food and let our patrons keep their dignity. That second part means more than most people know.
Skye smiles at Benji, and he smiles back. He’s an adorable kid.
“What do you like to do, Benji?” Skye asks.
He looks away then.
“He’s not talking much yet,” Elise says. “Benji, you should speak to the nice lady.”
“Oh, no. That’s okay. He’s a beautiful child.”