Chapter 17

Mazzy

The heft of the grocery bags strains against my arms as I push the door open to Foster’s kitchen from the garage entrance. It’s late Sunday afternoon, and the low sun streaming through the nook windows casts elongated shadows across the polished wooden floor. The house is quiet, save for the faint, muffled sounds that suggest Foster and Bowie Jane are somewhere upstairs. Foster’s truck, parked neatly in the garage, confirmed that they’re home.

I set the bags down on the vast island, the sound echoing slightly in the spacious room. The subzero fridge stands imposingly against the wall and I begin the task of unpacking—crisp bell peppers, a bundle of green onions, a neat packet of chicken breasts destined for tonight’s stir-fried chicken. The plastic bag rustles as I pull out jasmine rice and hoisin sauce, setting them on the marble counter.

Tonight’s dinner is a sort of farewell as Foster has a two-game road trip against the Atlanta Sting and the Florida Spartans. An early-morning departure means I’m staying over, slipping into my caretaker role for Bowie Jane while he’s away. It’s a new routine we need to settle into because Foster missed all the preseason away games while he was handling the custody situation.

I lean against the counter, allowing myself a moment of reflection. I spent part of my day at my parents’ house, surrounded by the comforting hum of laundry and family chatter. I then spent the early afternoon at Leo’s apartment, losing hours as we blended our music into something magical. When we get deep into melodies and chords, time sort of comes to a standstill. I was rushing out of his apartment and to the grocery store so I could get here to start dinner.

But even with the day’s pleasant distractions, I found myself drawn back here, to this house, to Bowie Jane’s bright laughter and Foster’s… well, everything about Foster. I try to quell the flutter in my chest as I recall the near-kiss from four days ago, a moment so charged with tension it still lingers in my thoughts, an unspoken question hanging in the air between us.

I know with a certainty that sits heavy in my stomach that anything between Foster and me is a line we can’t cross. It’s a thought I’ve turned over in my mind countless times—inappropriate, confusing, potentially disastrous. Yet, as I pull out the cutting board and begin to slice the peppers, my mind can’t help but wander to the what-ifs. The way his eyes searched mine, the unsteady cadence of his breath, the heat of his proximity—the memory stirs longing deep within me.

In this kitchen, under the soft hum of the refrigerator and the gentle afternoon light, I allow myself to indulge in these thoughts for just a moment longer. It’s fantasy, really.

The sharp knife moves methodically through the vegetables, but my heart, it seems, has a rhythm of its own—erratic and hopeful, foolishly caught in the gravitational pull of a man who I very much wish could be more than my employer.

The sound of footsteps coming down the stairs pulls me from my reverie, steadying my hand and heart as I push thoughts of Foster aside.

“Mazzy, I didn’t know you were here,” Bowie Jane says, her voice a mixture of surprise and delight. I really like the delight part because I’m crazy about this kid and it’s nice to know she feels the same way.

I beam a smile back at her, wiping my hands on a kitchen towel. “Just walked in a few minutes ago. Getting started on dinner.”

Bowie Jane glances over her shoulder toward the staircase, her small brow furrowing in thought. I can tell she’s torn between staying here with me and going back to whatever she was doing.

“Where’s your dad?” I ask, hoping to ease her apparent dilemma.

She turns to me, her ponytail swishing. “In the attic, but he’s coming down soon. He needs to talk to you.” Her tone is casual, but there’s a hint of curiosity in her eyes that I can’t quite decipher.

I nod, a small flutter of unease stirring in my stomach. Foster needing to talk to me isn’t unusual, but the way Bowie Jane says it makes it sound important. I need to focus on the here and now.

“What do you say we get started on that stir-fried chicken?” I suggest, aiming for a cheerful tone to keep the mood light. “You can be my sous-chef.”

Bowie Jane’s face brightens immediately, her earlier contemplation replaced by the prospect of helping out. She’s an amazing kid who’s always willing to do whatever is asked of her with very little grumbling. “Can I cut the vegetables?” she asks eagerly, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet.

“Of course, Chef,” I reply with a grin, handing her a small, safe knife and guiding her to wash her hands. “But remember like I taught you… very slow, absolute concentration.”

I watch over Bowie Jane carefully as she cuts the vegetables. She goes slowly and focuses hard on the task at hand. I keep my eyes on what she’s doing because a ten-year-old with a sharp knife requires that. It also lets me push aside the complexity of my conflicting emotions. I focus instead on the present, on Bowie Jane, and the comfort of being in this kitchen. But in the back of my mind, I can’t shake off the anticipation of Foster coming down and the conversation that awaits.

Just as Bowie Jane is finishing the last of the green onions, slicing them with an attentiveness that’s both endearing and amusing, I hear the unmistakable sound of Foster’s heavier footsteps descending the staircase. My heart does an involuntary skip. He enters the kitchen, and God… why does he have to look so good? And why am I so pleased that there’s a flicker of delight in his eyes when he sees me? It sends a confusing mix of warmth and apprehension swirling through me, and I have no business feeling this way.

“Hey,” he greets, his deep voice intensifying my jitters. Thank God I’m not cutting vegetables right now or I’d be at risk of slicing my finger again.

I manage a small “Hey” in return as I tuck my hair behind my ears.

A silence falls between us, heavy and awkward. I busy myself with wiping down the counter, even though it’s already spotless, just to have something to do with my hands.

Foster breaks the silence, throwing a thumb over his shoulder. “Was in the attic looking for an extra gear bag I thought I had,” he says, an attempt at casual conversation that doesn’t quite hide the undercurrent of something more serious.

“Do you need me to do anything to help get you ready for your trip?” That sounds professional, right?

“No, all good,” he replies, his gaze shifting to Bowie Jane, who’s watching us with a serious expression. It’s clear she senses something more is going on here. Foster meets her gaze and says pointedly, “Hey, honey… do you mind going upstairs for a bit so I can talk to Mazzy privately?”

The moment he says it, a wave of dread washes over me, cold and unwelcome. My mind races to the worst possible scenarios. Is he going to fire me? Tell me he doesn’t need me anymore? Maybe he’s upset I’m the one who stopped the almost-kiss although he hasn’t seemed angry these past few days. Everything’s been normal, except for my constant thoughts about it.

“Sure, no problem,” Bowie Jane chirps, seemingly oblivious to the tension. She bounds out of the kitchen and up the stairs, leaving us alone in a silence that now feels even heavier.

I turn to face Foster, my heart pounding in my chest. I brace myself for whatever is coming, trying to keep my face composed. But inside, I’m a storm of anxiety and unanswered questions, the memory of four days ago looming large in the space between us.

I’m nearly on the verge of blurting out an apology, although I’m not quite sure what I’d be apologizing for, when Foster points toward the island stools. “Want to sit?” he asks, his voice steady but carrying an undercurrent of something I can’t quite place.

I really don’t want to sit. My nerves are wired, my mind races and urges me to pace rather than sit, but I nod and take a seat anyway. Foster climbs onto the stool next to me, angling his body toward mine. My back is as straight as a rod, hands clasped tightly on the cool marble of the island top.

“I wanted to talk about what happened last week in the bathroom,” Foster starts, his tone serious.

“I’m sorry… I know you’re probably mad because I stopped it, but—” I rush to say, but he interrupts me.

“Mazzy… I’m not mad. On the contrary, I’m really glad it happened. It’s kind of made me realize some things.” His words are deliberate, his gaze fixed on me.

I cock my head, curiosity mixing with a tangle of other emotions. “What kind of things?”

“That I’m really disappointed it didn’t happen,” he says, and as I start to protest, to apologize, he holds up a hand to silence me. “But you were right to bring logic into it. To have us slow down. Consider things.”

I’m silent, processing his words.

“And I have been thinking about it a lot,” he continues. “Kept asking myself, why is this wrong? And I don’t think it is. Confusing, possibly, especially to Bowie Jane, so I talked to her about it.”

“You what?” I exclaim, the words bursting out of me.

“Relax,” Foster says with a small smile. “I told Bowie Jane that I wanted to ask you out, not that we almost kissed. I figured I needed to back up, do this right. But I still needed to know if Bowie Jane was okay with it.”

“And if she wasn’t?”

“Then you and I would have the best employer/employee relationship in history.” There’s a playful lightness in his voice.

I can’t help but laugh, the tension easing a little.

“But,” he continues, and I feel my laughter dying down, “Bowie Jane put her stamp of approval on it.”

The silence that follows is heavy, filled with unspoken words and possibilities.

“So,” Foster says, his voice gentle but firm, “will you go out on a date with me?”

His question hangs in the air, a pivotal moment that feels like it’s stretching into eternity. My heart pounds, a mix of fear, excitement, and a thousand uncharted feelings all swirling together. The simplicity of his question belies the complexity of everything behind it, and for a moment, I’m at a loss for words.

Ultimately though, there’s only one thing I can say. “I need to think about it.”