This Secret Thing, стр. 25
His grin stayed in place. “I know. I can’t believe it, either. It feels . . .”
“Good?” she ventured.
He thought it over. “Strange.”
“How did you . . .” She didn’t know how to tactfully ask the question on her mind. She tried to picture him going into a workplace, asking for an application. They would think he was just any homeless man off the street. They wouldn’t want him, because they wouldn’t know him.
“I went to the library, applied online. They have computers you can use for free.”
Pleased with his resourcefulness, she nodded a little too enthusiastically. “That’s so good that they have that,” she said, sounding stupid.
He held up the cell phone she’d gotten him, the prepaid kind. She had one, too, one Steve and her girls didn’t know about, her own private thing. She’d given him the number. “Now that I have this, I have a way they can contact me.” With the beard, she couldn’t tell if he was actually blushing, but she thought she saw his cheeks redden. “I have you to thank for that.”
She ignored his thanks, changed the subject. “You’ll need interview clothes,” she said.
She could tell from the look on his face that he hadn’t thought about that. He looked down at his worn, unwashed clothing. The shirt was a castoff from Steve. Shortly after she had met Jason, she’d convinced her husband to weed out his closet, going on and on about the KonMari method until he did it just to shut her up. She’d told him she’d take the discarded clothes to Goodwill. But first she’d offered them to Jason. She’d been surprised how Jason had sorted through them with care, as if he were purchasing them instead of taking a handout. She had admired the way he’d somehow retained his dignity.
“Do you know your measurements?” she asked, a plan formulating in her mind. She would buy him an interview outfit. Not a suit, of course, that was too much for the kinds of jobs he would be applying for. But some nice pressed khakis, a button-down shirt, a tie. She’d buy a blue shirt to match his eyes, which were now sparkling with excitement. She tried not to make eye contact for too long, looking instead at her hands resting on the table.
He shrugged. “I used to know all that, but I’ve, uh, kinda lost weight since then.” Before meeting her, he’d gone hungry a lot. “I do remember my sleeve length is thirty-three. I guess that doesn’t change.” He chuckled, but there was wistfulness in the laughter. “Funny, the things you remember.”
“I’ve got a measuring tape!” she blurted out. “I could measure you!” Too late, she thought better of her offer. Measuring someone required getting close. Touching them. “I mean,” she said, “I could let you use it to, you know, measure yourself.”
Seemingly unfazed, he nodded in agreement. “I guess I could do that.”
She nodded along. “Measure your waist and your neck, I guess?”
He continued nodding.
“And I’ll get you some, what, khaki pants? An oxford shirt maybe? For interviews?”
“That’s awfully nice of you,” he said. He grimaced. “I hate to keep taking your charity.”
She waved her hand in the air, dismissing his gratefulness. “I like doing it. It makes me feel good to help other people.”
He started to say something but stopped. The look on his face told her it was something she both wanted to hear and didn’t.
“What?” she asked, and felt her heart rate increase.
He gave her a rueful grin and shook his head. “Nothing.”
She was about to press, to insist he tell her what he was going to say. But something told her to leave it alone. Instead she said, “I’ll go find that measuring tape.”
She rose from her chair and went off to find it, coming back a few minutes later to hand it to him. She went to drop it into his hand and walk away clean. But when she reached out, he wrapped his fingers around her hand, holding her in place. Alarm bells went off inside her. He’d never gone so far as to make physical contact with her before. Eating in front of her was the most intimate thing he’d ever done. She met his eyes, and her elevated heart rate turned into a full-fledged pound. Had she made a mistake letting this stranger into her house? Was he going to do something to her? She tried, and failed, to remember the move they’d learned in class. What to do to throw off someone who has hold of your hand?
They blinked at each other, her breath gone thready in her throat. She felt the warmth of his hand holding hers, and realized that, though he was still touching her, he had relaxed his grip. He was not holding her in place; she could freely move away. But she stayed.
“You’re the only friend I have,” he said. “The only friend in the world.”
She thought about this. Their encounter in the spring, her resolve to help him, the conversations that resulted, each of them lingering longer and longer just to keep talking. Hers was the only number in his phone, and she’d be lying if she said she didn’t like that. Sometimes he called her just to talk. Sometimes she called him for the same reason. There was something about talking to her secret friend on her secret phone that made her feel more alive, her blood pounding in her veins with new fervor.
“Yes,” she said back to him. What she meant was, You are that for me as well. But she didn’t say it. She didn’t have to. He nodded his understanding, as if a bridge had been crossed over in that moment, but a bridge taking them to where, she couldn’t say. She didn’t dare try to guess.
Polly
She pulled into the driveway, noting that the number on the mailbox at the curb matched the