Page 17 of The Sweet Spot
She was finishing up making me more snacks for the next day and had them in the oven, so I asked her to join me for dinner since she’d made more than enough. She passed on the pasta because she’d marinated the meatballs in the sauce but had the broccoli, salad, and some of her quinoa bowl.
“I’ve been munching all day,” she said. “Right now, I have protein muffins in the oven. I’m not sure how they will turn out, so I have more the of dark chocolate protein bars made for you just in case.”
“I may have one of those later. Did I tell you what they served us for lunch today?”
“No,” she said, sitting with me at the island. She had her fuchsia hair in a tiny ponytail, but a few tendrils had slipped out. Her hair was short to begin with, so I was amazed she could get the little nub of a ponytail, but it looked cute on her, nevertheless.
“Sandwiches. Some on white bread. Unacceptable. I talked to our GM afterward and let him know the Kodiaks can’t be serving shit like that to the players. We are elite athletes. This isn’t a trade show conference. He mentioned something about a new person handling the catering and that it would be worked out. Thankfully, I’d brought some of your burritos with me and a few extra bars. All the guys were downing protein shakes, but it’s not enough.”
She pursed her lips. “That’s terrible.”
“Tell me about it.”
“If I still had my restaurant up and running, I would have loved to cater for the team.”
“Have you thought about opening a restaurant here? Can you even do that since you’re an American?”
She had a good idea going there, but that would meanlosing her, so maybe it wasn’t such a good idea for me. Though I certainly would never stop her from doing it.
“I think I need a break before I open a restaurant again or get back into the catering game. I used to do that before I opened the restaurant, and the thought of keeping track of servers, cooks, bartenders, the whole thing … Nah, I’m not up for that. As for being able to open one, I have dual citizenship. It shouldn’t be a problem.”
Interesting. My agent had asked how she was able to work for me so quickly, and I hadn’t given it much thought, but now that made sense.
“Oh, that’s cool. Nice to have. How’d you get it?”
She pushed a chunk of broccoli around her plate, and I wondered if I somehow had crossed some line. But she’d mentioned her parents and how great they were, so if one was Canadian, it couldn’t be a sore spot. Or was it? Soon, she was talking, so maybe it wasn’t a problem.
“My birth father is Canadian, from a place called Morris, Manitoba, and when my parents adopted me, they kept up my dual citizenship along with my brother’s. And I’m glad they did, otherwise, you would have had to go through all sorts of hoops to get me a work permit.”
Birth father? Shit, she’d never mentioned being adopted, and now I felt awkward for bringing the whole thing up. I had no idea if it was a touchy subject, and by the way her lips curled down, she seemed bummed about the topic of conversation. I then asked a question that was none of my business because my mouth was moving faster than my tired brain.
“You’re adopted?”
“Yup. I don’t know much, and I remember nothing about my birth parents. I was about a year old when I was put into the foster care system, and Craig, my brother, was three. Myparents met us and immediately wanted to adopt us both. My mom and dad couldn’t have kids of their own.”
She looked so vulnerable at that moment as if she’d opened up her entire self to me. No one had done that before, other than my sister, so it was a foreign concept. I had to be careful not to put my foot in my mouth. But again, I could quell the inquisitive side of me.
“Have you met your birth parents?”
“Nope. And I don’t want to. I love my parents, and they are the only parents I’ve ever known or want to know.”
I should have stopped there, but I kept going. “Don’t you wonder?”
“Not really. Maybe when my doctor asks me about my family history. I know that bothers my brother now that he has two little ones.”
And despite her answers, I couldn’t stop asking. “Do you wonder why they gave you up?”
She took in a deep breath and faced me. The pain etched on her face made me feel like a shit for prying. “From what my mom and dad have told me and my brother, my birth father walked out on my birth mother and moved back to Canada. She couldn’t afford to keep us, so she gave us both up. I accepted that explanation. If it’s good enough for me, it’s good enough for everyone.”
I closed my eyes and groaned. “Sorry, Wolseley. That was none of my business.”
She gave me a reassuring smile. “It’s totally okay. People are curious.” She popped off her bistro chair and began cleaning up again. I felt like the biggest piece of shit, but I had no idea what to say to make it right, so we stayed there in uncomfortable silence. She probably couldn’t wait for the muffins to be done and get the hell out of there.
When the oven buzzer went, she couldn’t get them out fastenough. While she waited for them to cool, she finished cleaning up the kitchen. At some point, she figured they’d cooled enough and handed me one to try.
“It’s good,” I said. “Carrot?”
“Carrot nut,” she said. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to head home since I’ll have an early morning again. I’m still adjusting to this new schedule. Would you put them in an airtight container in about fifteen minutes?”