The Captain's Dirty Little Secret

Roxie did not leave the house.

She told herself she would.

At ten, she thought about showering.

At eleven, she thought about getting dressed.

At noon, she opened her phone and saw the message from Zac still sitting there, unopened, because if she opened it and he pushed again, she would have to answer.

She had no answer.

Thanksgiving at the Prescotts.

What a joke.

She did not even have the guts to walk up to that front door, smile at his mother, and sit at a table with a family that already hated her in advance. She could barely stand being alone in her own house. How was she supposed to survive a room full of people who knew exactly where Zac belonged and exactly why she didn’t?

So she stayed in bed.

The TV was on in the living room, but the sound barely reached her room. Her phone sat beside her pillow. Every time it buzzed, her stomach tightened.

Angela had messaged twice.

Ethan messaged in the afternoon.

I can drop by with food if you want. We got too much here.

Roxie stared at that one for a long time.

Then she typed back.

No need. Ate at Angela’s.

The lie looked fine on the screen.

She had microwaved coffee until it tasted burnt, then left half of it on the dresser. At some point, she had eaten two crackers from the cabinet because her stomach hurt. That counted enough.

Thanksgiving had never been a huge thing in their house.

Claire cooked when she was in the mood. Bought food when she wasn’t. Sometimes Steve complained about the turkey being dry even when he had done nothing but sit at the table and drink. Sometimes Claire laughed too loudly and pretended everything was fine. Sometimes Roxie washed dishes while the two of them argued in the living room.

It had still been something.

Claire had still been there.

Now the house had an empty kitchen, a dead TV in the background, and Roxie lying in bed like moving would prove she had nowhere to go.

She turned on her side and pulled the blanket higher.

Her phone buzzed again.

She couldn’t look.

He had invited her. She had refused. He probably sat at his huge perfect table with his perfect plates and his perfect family, eating perfect turkey while his mother smiled at him and thanked God Roxie Jones had stayed away.

Roxie pressed her face into the pillow.

A knock hit the front door.

Her body went cold.

She froze.

For a few seconds, she heard nothing except the TV and her own pulse suddenly pounding too hard in her ears.

Another knock.

Roxie sat up fast.

Her hand went under the pillow.

The knife was there.

She wrapped her fingers around the handle and slid out of bed without making a sound. Her bare feet touched the floor. She moved slowly, keeping close to the wall as she reached the hallway.

The knock came again.

Lighter this time.

Her heart beat so hard it hurt.

Claire?

Steve? Oh God. Please no.

Someone worse?

Roxie reached the living room and turned the TV volume down with shaking fingers. Then she moved toward the side window near the door and peeked through the edge of the curtain.

Her breath left her all at once.

That hoodie.

That stupid broad-shouldered shape standing on her porch with a paper bag in one hand.

Her fingers loosened around the knife.

"Zac?" she called through the door.

"Yeah," he answered from outside. "It’s me."

Roxie closed her eyes for one second.

Relief came so fast it made her angry.

She put the knife on the small table near the door, then unlocked the deadbolt.

When she opened the door, Zac stood under the porch light with his team hoodie on, hair messy from the cold, and a paper bag tucked against his side.

He gave her a crooked grin.

It was charming enough to be annoying.

"You couldn’t come," he said, lifting the bag a little. "So I brought it to you."

Roxie stared at him.

Her chest did that painful twisting thing again.

"You brought me Thanksgiving?"

"I brought food. Thanksgiving sounded too official."

Her mouth almost smiled.

It happened before she could stop it.

Zac saw it.

His grin softened.

Roxie stepped back. "Come in before the neighbors think you’re selling turkey door to door."

He walked in and looked at the small table, then the knife sitting beside the door.

His face changed.

Roxie moved fast and grabbed it. "Don’t start."

"I didn’t say anything."

"Well, stop."

Zac’s jaw tightened, but he nodded once. "Okay."

She took the paper bag from him and carried it to the kitchen. It was heavier than she expected. Warm too. The smell hit when she opened it, and her stomach clenched hard enough to embarrass her.

Turkey.

Mashed potatoes.

Rolls.

Pie.

Real food.

Roxie swallowed and started pulling containers out. "You robbed your family?"

"Technically, the cook packed it."

She paused and looked at him.

Zac sat at the kitchen table, hands clasped loosely between his knees, watching her like he wasn’t sure where he was allowed to put himself.

She looked away first.

The table.

When had she last used it to eat?

A month ago, maybe.

Steve had still been here then, sitting in the wrong chair like he owned the room. Claire had been pretending they were a family. Roxie had been pretending she didn’t hate the sound of his fork scraping the plate.

After that, she had eaten standing up.

On the couch.

In her room.

Anywhere except the table.

Now Zac sat there, too big for the small chair, waiting for her like this was normal.

Roxie grabbed two plates from the cabinet.

Her hands felt clumsy.

"You can get drinks," she said.

"Where?"

"Fridge."

Zac stood and opened it.

There was almost nothing inside. Water bottles. One carton of juice. Half a container of rice. A jar of pickles Claire liked and Roxie had not thrown away.

Zac looked for half a second too long.

Roxie’s face heated. "Water."

He took two bottles and closed the fridge.

She plated the food, putting too much on his plate and less on hers because habit moved faster than thought. Zac noticed. He switched the plates before sitting down.

Roxie glared at him.

He opened his water. "What?"

"That was my plate."

"Now it’s mine." Zac looked at her, then back at his plate, giving her the mercy of looking away.

They ate.

For a minute, the only sounds were forks against plates and the TV murmuring in the living room.

Roxie took one bite and had to stop herself from reacting too much.

It was good.

Really good.

Rich. Warm. Seasoned in a way that made her realize how little she had eaten all day.

She cleared her throat. "This tastes good."

Zac looked up. "Yeah."

"Your mom made it?"

"Yeah," he said too quickly.

Roxie’s eyes narrowed.

Zac went still.

She set her fork down slowly. "You got someone cooking for you, Mr. Zac?"

His ears turned red.

That was answer enough.

Roxie leaned back in her chair. "Oh my God."

"It’s Thanksgiving."

"You have hired Thanksgiving?"

"No."

"Zac."

"It’s just how my mom does things."

"Someone cooks the food, and your mom gets tired from looking at it?"

His ears went redder. "She wants a perfect Thanksgiving dinner."

Roxie smile thinned.

"Good thing I didn’t come."

Zac looked at her.

The kitchen felt smaller.

Roxie reached for her water and twisted the cap even though it was already open.

Zac’s hand covered hers on the table.

She looked at it.

Then at him.

He sighed, quiet and tired. "I’m here, am I not?"

Roxie bit the inside of her cheek.

He hadn’t denied it.

He hadn’t said his house was different. He hadn’t said his mother would be nice. He hadn’t lied and made it smaller.

Roxie looked down at his hand over hers.

"Yeah," she said.

His thumb moved once against her knuckles.

Then he let go.

They ate again.

Slowly this time.

Roxie tried the stuffing and made a face.

Zac watched her. "Bad?"

"It tastes expensive."

"That’s not a taste."

"It is in your house."

He huffed a laugh.

She pointed her fork at the mashed potatoes. "These are good."

"I’ll tell the cook."

"Please do. Tell your mother too. She must be exhausted from supervising the potatoes."

Zac shook his head, but his mouth curved.

Roxie liked that too much.

She looked down at her plate and took another bite.

The quiet between them felt strange. But the quiet did not feel empty with him in it.

That scared her.

"I told them."

Roxie stopped chewing. Her eyes lifted to him.

"Told them what?"

"I told them I was coming here."

Roxie swallowed.

The food suddenly felt heavy in her throat.

"Why?"

Zac looked at her across the small kitchen table.

"Because it was the truth."

Her fingers tightened around her fork.

"That’s not what I mean."

"I know."

"Zac." Roxie stared at him. Her pulse started beating too fast. "You told them you were bringing food to me?"

"Yes."

"Why would you do that?"

She asked with trepidation in her voice.