Protect Me - Spotlight Collection, Book 2

by Hart, Cary

  “Oh!”

  “Yeah, Oh.” I wave her off. “But that’s a story for another day. Let’s talk about this.” I raise my glass to hers. “Cheers.”

  She raises her glass to mine, and clinks it. “Cheers.”

  “My mom never allowed us to have anything other than water. Except for milk in the mornings. We just didn’t have the extra money for anything else. When we went to visit Mama Ang, she would always have a glass of Kool-Aid for each of us and, of course, a baked good of some sort.”

  “I can only image.” Penny picks up a napkin wiping the crumbs off the corner of her mouth.

  “I thought it was the best stuff ever and a different flavor each time we went to visit. So, you can imagine my excitement.”

  “The day we headed to New York. I was devastated. I didn’t want to leave my friends, but I especially didn’t want to leave Mama Ang and her daily treats. And when I went to say our goodbyes, she couldn’t help but notice I was upset. So, I told her.”

  “The Kool-Aid.”

  Leaning against the counter, I take a pull of the pink lemonade and close my eyes, remembering. “Yup and you know what she did?” I continue not giving her time to respond, “She packed up a tote with five bags of sugar and her whole supply of Kool-Aid packets.”

  “Always taking care of others.” Penny’s eyes begin to fill with tears.

  “Yeah. We went through that tote in a week and when I found change I bought more packets, but what I didn’t count on was the amount of sugar and Mom refused to buy more than one bag every payday. Said it wasn’t in her budget.”

  “That’s sad.” She pinches the bridge of her nose to keep the tears from falling.

  “Don’t cry. I was a resourceful kid. I went to the store for the neighbors and in exchange for going, they would buy me four packets of Kool-Aid and let me keep the coins from the change. I would use that to buy sugar.”

  “Oh my gosh! You bought Kool-Aid for you and your sisters!” she proclaims.

  “Nope. If I would have shared, one pitcher wouldn’t last longer than a day.” I shake my head. “Four of them and one of me? The odds weren’t in my favor, so I hid the packets and sugar in the tote Mama Ang gave us.”

  “You didn’t.” She laughs.

  “Yup. A neighbor had a garage sale, so I bought a pitcher, used the water from the bath tub and the end of one of my sister’s hairbrushes as the spoon. No one knew.”

  “I kinda get it now,” she says as she hops down from the bar stool. Grabbing her plate on the way to the sink.

  “Honestly, I just love the stuff. The addiction is real.”

  Washing her plate off in the sink, she turns her head to look over her shoulder. “I get the addiction, but what about the ‘special occasion’ ones?” She turns forgetting she had the sprayer in hand, water drenching the side of the refrigerator. “Oh no!” She scrambles around the kitchen looking for something to wipe it up. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Not a big deal.” I reach into the drawer, pulling out a hand towel. “It’s just water.”

  “I know, but …”

  “Just water,” I remind her.

  “Okay.” She walks around to the other side of the island watching me clean up.

  “See. All done.” I lay the towel over the drying rack. “Now, you want to know about the special occasion flavors.”

  “Yes! I almost forgot.”

  “They were just some of my favorites growing up and aren’t in production anymore or if they are, they’re hard to find.”

  “So, you leave them for a special occasion. Makes sense.”

  “Yeah … plus they have cool names like PurpleSaurus Rex. That’s just brilliant.”

  “Indeed.” She bobs her head.

  Unsure of what to talk about we just stare at each other, drinking our Kool-Aid, while each of us waits for the other to say something next.

  “Do you work tonight?” She finally breaks the silence.

  “Nah. I’m still on bereavement till tomorrow. Ford, the owner and an old friend, called Gavin and told him to give me a few extra days.”

  I should have told her that I worked the week she was in the hospital just so I could stay home a little longer while she is here.

  “Wow. That’s nice of them. Most places only give you a few days.”

  “He likes to think of his employees as family. Which is hard for me. When you grow up with four sisters, sometimes being alone is just nice.”

  “I guess.” Penny stands, excusing herself from the kitchen. “I think I’m going to watch a little TV.”

  “What’s on?”

  “I’m suddenly in the mood for Grey’s.” She reaches for the remote and brings Netflix to life.

  Grey’s.

  The last time I watched it was with her. After she left, I tried to pick up where we left off, but I just couldn’t. It wasn’t the same.

  “Shapiro?” Penny calls out.

  “Yeah.” I walk over to the couch to see her pointing at the screen. “It’s still paused on the episode we were watching.”

  “Yeah. I—”

  “Didn’t feel right,” she interrupts, laying her head over the back of the couch looking up at me.

  “It didn’t,” I agree.

  “You want to join me?” She pats the seat next to her.

  “Popcorn and Kool-Aid?” I suggest.

  “Perfect, but I’m warning you … I’ve slept for three days so I can go all night long.” She winks.

  “Oh really?” I kid, giving her hell.

  “I mean the show. Binge watch. You know what I mean.” She fumbles for the right words her face flush.

  “I do, and I actually took a little bit of a nap myself today. So, I say let’s see who crashes first.”

  “Oh, you are soooo going down,” she drags out.

  “I think this calls for a special occasion,” I suggest making my way back into the kitchen. Surprising myself, that I not only shared my story, but now I’m sharing my stash.

  “No way! Which one?” Penny’s eyes are wide with excitement.

  “Your pick.”

  Please don’t say Sharkleberry. Please don’t say Sharkleberry.

  Tapping her chin. “It’s a hard choice.”

  “Trust me I know.”

  Please don’t say Sharkleberry. Please don’t say Sharkleberry.

  “How about Sharkleberry?”

  Dammit!

  “PurpleSaurus Rex it is.”

  “Shapiro!”

  “What?” I shrug my shoulders. “Some habits are just too hard to break.”

  Penny

  It was just a simple confession about a boy who loves his Kool-Aid. To most people this would be a story about poverty, but to me it’s about overcoming where you came from and striving to become more.

  Frances Eugene Shapiro, quiet and soft spoken. A far cry from his intimidating bouncer persona. I wish there was more to me than what you see. But what you see is what you get.

  He’s looking at me, like he’s waiting for an answer. “What?” I mumble.

  “I was just wondering … what’s your Kool-Aid?” His curious eyes pierce through me.

  “Oh, well … I … uh,” I stutter unsure of what to say, wishing I had some awesome secret confession about a hidden collection tied to my childhood. But being bounced all around in foster homes there wasn’t time for making lasting memories or quirky habits.

  “It’s okay. If you don’t.”

  Ashamed, I look away. “Maybe I do,” I huff out, trying to think of something.

  “I was going to say, you don’t have to share.” He takes a seat next to me placing our drinks on the coffee table, and the popcorn between us.

  “Oh.” I stare at the screen as the familiar sounds of Grey’s fills the room. There must be something. But it’s hard wading through the memories I spent so long trying to forget to search for just one worth holding on to. One worth sharing.

  Pausing the show, I stand up, grab a throw from the love
seat, and plop back down this time facing him.

  “Oh good. Story time.” Shapiro throws his arm around the back of the couch and twists toward me.

  Cringing, I search for some kind of story, but the truth of it is, there’s nothing. Like most who have a highlight reel of memories, I have forgettable encounters. Situations that are better left in the past.

  “Would you believe me if I said, I don’t have one?” Shapiro listens contently, while eating a handful of popcorn. “At least not until recently.” I opt for the truth. “I grew up in foster care. My mother was a druggy who died in an alley sitting on a bed of cardboard boxes with a needle sticking out of her arm.”

  “You didn’t have any family who could take you in?” Shapiro asks, setting the bowl of popcorn down. All his attention now on me.

  “I had my grandmother, but right after my eighth birthday, she was involved in a head on collision. She died instantly.” I should feel some sort of sadness for myself, but I don’t. When you have been dealt the deck that I have been, you just learn to go with it. This was my norm. “I barely knew my mother and my grandmother tried. She really did …” I throw out there. Not sure who I’m trying to convince, Shapiro or myself. “But we weren’t close. I guess when you have to work extra hours to take care of a child you never wanted in the first place, resentment sets in.”

  “I’m sure she loved you, she just wasn’t expecting to raise another child. You know?” Shapiro speaks up trying to convince me that I was loved.

  “Maybe … I stayed with the neighbor while she worked and locked myself in my room when we she was home. Just to give her more space.”

  “You were eight and basically locked in your room?” Shapiro’s voice is void of emotion, but his facial expression says something different.

  “It was a choice.”

  Was it?

  I’ve never told anyone this before. These memories long gone. Recalling the events makes me see that I was making excuses even back then.

  “What about the neighbor. Sounds like you spent a lot of time with them. Couldn’t they take you in?”

  “She tried, but she had three other kids. Two boys and one girl, Lisa, who hated me.”

  “Ohhhh! Girls can be vicious. I should know, I lived with four.” He chuckles.

  “She said she was okay with it. Even said we could be sisters. My eight-year-old self was elated, but once she learned we had to share a room, that was it.”

  “You said you were in and out of foster homes?” Shapiro reaches up to rub his dark stubble.

  That’s new and I can’t help it, losing my train of thought, I stare for a second before asking, “When did you start growing that?”

  “When you were asleep.”

  I nod at his omission. “Gotcha.”

  “Avoiding the question?”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s okay if you don’t want to talk, but you mentioned foster homes as in multiple.”

  “Sorry. I guess I was just distracted.” I smile.

  “By me?”

  “By your stubble.” I give Shapiro a toothy grin. “Any who …” I wave him off. The compliment here and then gone. “I’m not sure if I have any other family. If I did, they didn’t claim me.”

  “I can’t even begin to imagine. Living in poverty, yeah, I get but I always had my sisters, Mama Ang.”

  “It’s okay. I’m used to it.” I try to reassure him.

  “No. It’s not.” Shapiro locks his eyes on mine—dark and intense. “Everyone deserves someone to love them.”

  Clearing my throat, I look away and whisper, “Mama Ang loved me.”

  Feeling the cushion rise, Shapiro is up and kneeling in front of me. “She did. You were the daughter she never had.” He reaches for my hands, this time I don’t pull back. “I know you think she saved you, but you saved her too.” He rubs the soft spot between my finger and thumb with his.

  Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and speak on an exhale. “Baking.”

  Shapiro pauses with his relaxing hand massage. “Baking?”

  Opening my eyes, I explain, “Yeah. it’s my Kool-Aid.”

  His laugh vibrates through me. This room may be soundproof, but with our hands connected, I can feel everything.

  Every word.

  Every beat.

  Every breath.

  I feel him.

  Slowly pulling back his hands, he rises. “I think this story calls for popcorn.” He grabs the bowl from the coffee table and offers me some.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Suit yourself. It’s the movie theater kind.” He grabs a handful as he falls back into his spot.

  I can’t help but watch him pop a handful in his mouth. Trying to get every kernel in, his tongue darts out to lick the corner of his mouth. His lips glistening from the extra butter.

  “Umm …” I clear my throat.

  “Here.” He hands me my drink. A special occasion blend of grape and lemonade. “A Kool-Aid for your Kool-Aid.”

  Throwing my head back, I shake with laughter. “Cute, Shapiro. Real cute,” I admit taking the glass from him.

  “I thought it was.” The corner of his lips curl as he waves me on. “Don’t let me stop you. Go on.”

  “You know how Kool-Aid is your happy place?” I wait for him to answer.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, apparently baking is mine.”

  Shapiro nods, as he drains his glass. Suddenly, his eyes go wide as he points to me. “Easy Bake Oven!” he shouts. “My sisters loved theirs, except we couldn’t afford the mixes, but that didn’t stop them. They tried to make their own. Can you believe that?”

  “I bet that was messy.” I bring my legs up to curl them under me. Attentively hanging on every word.

  “Beyond.” Shapiro erupts in laughter. “Mom would get so pissed.” He shakes his head at the memory.

  “Unfortunately, I never had the privilege of owning one, but I did have one foster mom who loved those brownie and cookie mixes. We may not have had bread and milk, but we always had oil and eggs.”

  “That sucks.” Shapiro purses his lips.

  “I thought it was pretty cool. What kid wouldn’t want brownies or cookies for every meal?”

  “One that has to have milk with their baked goods.” He shrugs. “It’s a must.”

  “Noted.” I can’t help but smile.

  I dreaded this conversation, but now? I want to make it last because when it’s over, Grey’s will come back on and our thoughts will be just that.

  “I’m sorry. I keep interrupting you. So, tell me more.” Shapiro reaches over and grabs the end of my throw, covering his feet.

  Moving around, to get comfortable, his feet brush up against mine and I pull away.

  “What? Feet gross you out?”

  “No …”

  “Then why move?”

  “It’s too tempting.” I’m honest with him. “You see. I have this issue …” I try to explain the best I can. Tyler thought it was weird and would never let me do it. “You get too close and my feet have this way of burrowing under people. I’m just saving you from becoming a victim.”

  “Foot-coddler.” He points to me. “Freya, my twin, does the exact same thing.”

  “Good to know.”

  “Dammit. I did it again.” Shapiro slaps the back of the couch. “I’m sorry. Tell me about your Kool-Aid. I think we left off at brownies and cookies without milk.” He feigns a gasp.

  “Okay, yeah … that is when it started. Then in high school, I took a cooking class, which I sucked at.”

  “Wait! You failed cooking one-oh-one?”

  “Not exactly. Luckily the cupcakes and other bakery lessons kept my grade up.” I laugh awkwardly. “Apparently, I suck at cooking, but I can boil water. So, that’s a plus.”

  “Here I was hoping to get a few good meals from you.” He gives me a smirky smile.

  “I can do the basics and cook enough to survive, it’s just not my specialty.”


  “Penny?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why do you keep letting me interrupt?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe because you make me smile … and I like it.” I expose myself with one little truth.

  “It’s a pretty one.” He points to his own. “What do you think of this?” he jokes.

  Kissing the tips of my fingers, I throw it away and call out. “Magnifico.”

  Stretching out, he nudges his foot against my leg. “Now go on.”

  “Okay.” I tap my chin trying to remember where I left off. “Well, we covered foster mom and school, but it wasn’t until I moved in with Tyler that I had an opportunity to bake.”

  Shapiro coughs, “Bastard,” and coughs again.

  Raising an eyebrow, I dare him to interrupt.

  “Between school and working I was left home. A LOT. And they had these bake-off show marathons on TV. The ones I loved, I would look up the recipes on their website and see if I could do it.”

  “I bet the asshole loved it,” he says, wringing his hands together in his lap.

  “He would taste them but said he didn’t need the calories.”

  “Nonsense. It’s called a gym. Eat what you want. Hit the weights … it’s an excuse to complain.” He reaches out and pats my leg. “Carry on.”

  “I had cookies, muffins, tortes … you name it, I tried to make it. Since Tyler wouldn’t eat hardly anything I made, he would take it to work. My ‘experiment of the day’ he called it. Turns out his coworkers loved everything I sent. And Tyler ate it up … the attention as the doting and proud boyfriend, not the actual treats,” I remind him. “Until one suggested I start my own bakery, since we didn’t have one nearby. We had the cupcakeries, but not a full-scale bakery.”

  “Why didn’t you?” Shapiro asks, but given the situation I’m currently in, I’m betting he already knows the answer.