Chapter 1 - The Night I Stood Barefoot by His Table
The steam coming off his spaghetti hit me before he looked up. It was white and warm and curled up past the pendant light over his round table, and for a second I just stood there breathing it in while my stomach hurt. He had two plates in front of him, spaghetti with little green pieces of broccoli and a steak I could smell even through the rain on my hair, and two water glasses sweating onto the white tablecloth. His silver watch caught the light when he moved his fork. My feet were wet and cold on the restaurant floor and I could feel everybody able to see them because I had nothing on them.
That was wrong, me in there like that while he sat straight in his dark navy suit with his gray hair combed back, and that was why I picked his table. The other tables were full of talking and clinking and nobody looking at the door, but he was eating alone and not in a hurry, and his eyes were blue and not mean when they finally lifted. Behind him a waiter in a black vest started walking our way fast, and I knew I had about ten seconds before someone put a hand on my shoulder.
My name is Emily and I was seven and I hadn't eaten since Friday.
Rain was still running down the big windows behind the wood walls, and the city lights outside looked smeared and yellow through it. I remember counting the raindrops on the glass because I didn't want to look at what the waiter would do. My gray zip hoodie was stuck to my dress underneath and the zipper was cold in my fingers. I held onto it hard to keep my hands from shaking. The floor felt slick under my bare feet. My face hurt where it was bruised and dirty. I tried to stand up taller beside his chair, close enough to smell the food but not touching the tablecloth.
He set his fork down slow and looked at my feet first, then at my face. He didn't wave me off. He didn't call out. He just studied me like he was trying to figure out if I was real. The watch on his wrist ticked when he turned his hand over. On his other hand there was a gold ring. I could see his jacket pocket move a little when he breathed. The waiter stopped a few steps back, waiting to see what the old man would do.
I was not supposed to be inside. I knew that.
He saw that I knew.
"Sir, can I eat with you?"
My voice came out smaller than I wanted it to. I squeezed the zipper until it dug into my palm. He didn't answer right away. He glanced past me toward the waiter, then back at me, and his mouth stayed in a straight solemn line.
"What's your name?"
"Emily, I haven't eaten since Friday."
He kept looking at me after I said it. I wanted to look down at the spaghetti again but I made myself look at him because Grandpa always said look people in the eye. My breathing sounded loud to me. The restaurant noise went soft around our table, like the other people were listening without turning their heads. The waiter took another step closer. I felt the cold air from the door still on my legs.
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"Sit down."
He said it quiet and he moved his hand just a little toward the empty chair across from him, and I didn't sit yet because the waiter was right there now and the chair felt too clean and too high and I was afraid if I touched it they would change their minds.
