“Yeah, I got everything,” he says in defeat.
“Sounds like you need another trip to the doctor. Maybe he can increase the dose.”
He shrugs. If he’s telling the truth about taking his meds, then his Parkinson’s is progressing. He hates his disease and barely acknowledges he has it. Pushing him now won’t get him to admit he needs to make an appointment. I’ll have to ask again later.
I drop the plastic into the trash can and sit in front of my now-lukewarm meal, not that I’m complaining. I’d rather be eating tasteless imitation cardboard with Roger than a five-star Michelin meal alone.
“So, tell me about your buddy,” Roger says as he digs his fork into his mashed potatoes.
“He’s a six-year-old boy named Aidan, and he’s funny as hell, even if he doesn’t intend to be.” A smile tweaks the corners of my mouth. “He’s a good kid. I like him.”
“Reminds you of Ben, huh?”
I hesitate. “Yeah. A lot in some ways, not so much in others.”
“How old is Ben now?”
I swallow, hating to think about the years I’ve lost with my nephew. “Fourteen.”
“He was eight when you got arrested?”
“Yep,” I say warily, hunching over my plastic tray. I’ve told him all of this, and Roger’s not senile, which means he’s working his way up to a point.
“Maybe you should try calling your sister again.”
And there it is.
“I’ve called her multiple times, Roger. She won’t change her mind.”
“When was the last time you tried?”
“Two Christmases ago,” I say in exasperation. “She made it very clear she wasn’t feeling generous of heart. In fact, I think her exact words were, ‘Don’t call here again.’”
“You should try anyway,” Roger says. “Maybe you’ll get a Christmas miracle.”
I look up from my food and take in Roger’s cloudy eyes “I know what you’re doing, and you need to let it go.”
“I should hope you know what I’m doing,” Roger scoffs. “I wasn’t trying to be subtle.”
“When were you ever subtle, Roger Ditmore?” a woman’s voice calls from outside the door, and then Mrs. Rosa appears, her salt-and-pepper hair pulled up into a loose, messy bun. She’s barely fifty, but she’s wearing a housedress like the one my grandmother used to wear. It’s covered with an apron that says, “Life is short! Lick the bowl!” She has black orthopedic shoes on her feet, and she’s carrying a pie plate in both hands. “Today’s pie is butter pecan.”
“My favorite,” Roger says.
“I know,” she says impatiently as she sets the pie tin on the table.
“Hey,” Roger protests. “Half the pie’s gone!”
“I had a few people who only wanted a slice.” She shrugs and lifts her hands in a what are you gonna do motion.
“That’s ridiculous,” Roger grumps as he pushes his partially eaten meatloaf dinner to the side and digs his fork into one of the pieces of pie. “Who stops at one slice?”
“Hey,” she says, pulling the pie tin from him. “You’re not a five-year-old. You know better. Eat your dinner first.”
Roger grumbles about the unfairness of life, but he returns his attention to his plastic tray, stabbing several green beans with his fork.
“What were you two talking about before I walked in?” Her dark eyes glint with amusement. She clearly overheard part of our conversation, and she’s waiting to see what I’ll admit to.
Releasing a sigh, I push my tray away. I could try to dodge her questions, but that never works with her. Better to get this out of the way. “My sister.”
Her forehead creases with a frown. “How about I bake a lovely cake and have it sent to her? We’ll tell her it’s from you. No one can stay bitter when they’re eating one of my cakes.”
Roger leans over to sneakily scoop up a bite of pie, then pops it into his mouth and nods. “She has a point,” he says past his mouthful.
I expect Mrs. Rosa to scold him, but she’s too busy preening over his compliment. Roger is like Scrooge McDuck when it comes to praise.
“A cake isn’t gonna solve this,” I say gently. “If I’d thought there was a single chance in hell it would, I’d have had you make your red velvet, and I would have personally delivered it with a marching band.”
A pensive look crosses her face. “A string quartet would go better with the red velvet. The vanilla sprinkle seems more like a marching band type cake.”
“Or the rainbow layer,” Roger says.
She tilts her head to the side in consideration. “True.”
I push out a breath. “It doesn’t matter what kind of cake or pie, or what type of musical group shows up at Amanda’s house. She’s never going to forgive me for getting arrested and going to prison.”
My neighbors are silent for several seconds before Mrs. Rosa says quietly, “Forever’s a long time, dear.”
Maybe so, but Amanda can hold a grudge like nobody’s business. Add in the fact that we never got along much before my conviction, and it’s pretty much hopeless.
“Jace got a buddy,” Roger says, then takes the last bite of his meal and pushes the plastic tray to the side, making way for the pie.
Mrs. Rosa is too busy pinning me with a scrutinizing gaze to protest. “You made a friend, Jace?” she asks, like I just came home from my first day at preschool.
“A buddy,” I say. “Through Butterfly Buddies.”
“They finally responded?” she marvels.
My jaw drops. “You knew I applied?”
“Of course,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Roger told me.”
He grimaces, then shrugs.
Maybe I should be annoyed that they’ve clearly been gossiping about me, but it’s not really gossip. They care about me.
Maybe it’s weird that I’m a thirty-five-year-old man and my best friends are an eighty-seven-year-old retiree making do on a tiny social security check, a fifty-something woman who runs an illegal bakery out of her kitchen while living on disability, and a black cat who’s sort of an asshole. But it sure beats being alone.
Mrs. Rosa takes a seat, and I grab another fork and a carton of milk out of my fridge. Roger likes to eat his dessert with milk, while Mrs. Rosa and I prefer coffee—which I already brewed, figuring she’d drop by since I didn’t see her last night. We all sit at the table and dig into the pie as I talk about Aidan. Then, against my better judgment, I tell them about my hot chocolate outing with Mary and her son.
Mrs. Rosa narrows her eyes. “You like this girl.”
I snort. “How can you get away with calling her a girl? You’re barely old enough to be my mother.”
Roger points his fork at me. “And she’d’ve been a young mother at that.”
Mrs. Rosa eyes him like he’s a changeling. Two compliments in one night. I partially wonder if he’s a changeling myself.
“She’s not a girl,” I say with a grunt. “She’s a woman.” All woman.
Her eyes light up.
“You stop that right now,” I say.