Broken Glass Park by Alina Bronsky Page A

back. I have a hard time squaring him with the guy I met last night. I have to think for a moment before his name comes back to me. Felix. Latin for “happy.”
    I’m surprised to see that in the light he has strawberry blond hair and freckles. With the sun on it, it looks like his hair is on fire.
    I stare at him in wonder for a few seconds. Then he flinches and starts to turn around toward me.
    “Good morning,” I say. I clear my throat and try again. “Good morning.”
    “Hello,” he answers quickly.
    Something about him is different from last night. He looks at me for a second and turns back away from me. He seems tense.
    “Have a seat,” it occurs to him to say. “What would you like to eat?”
    “I don’t care.”
    “Well, there’s the butter and jam, there’s the cheese, and here’s the milk. Do you drink coffee?”
    “Yes.”
    “And here’s the orange juice.”
    “Thanks.” I sit down. He passes everything to me—the basket of bread, the plates, a knife, the coffee pot, a cup—until the area in front of me is totally packed. I take my elbows off the table.
    “Thanks,” I repeat.
    “We also have Nutella.”
    “I don’t eat it. Thanks.”
    “You don’t eat Nutella?” Now he sounds a little bit like he did last night. “How is that possible?”
    “I’m not big on sweets.”
    “You’re lucky.”
    “Why?”
    “I can eat half a jar of Nutella in one sitting.”
    “Go ahead then. What’s so bad about that? I’ve heard alcoholics don’t like to eat sweets. And the other way around—that people with a sweet-tooth have a lower risk of becoming boozers. So be happy.”
    He looks surprised. “Where did you hear that?”
    “I can’t remember. Read it somewhere.”
    As I’m spreading butter on a piece of bread, I notice him stealthily trying to check me out. I look up and he glances away.
    “Where is . . . ”
    “Volker?” volunteers Felix.
    “Yeah.”
    “He has a meeting this morning. Said I should look after you.”
    “And you are.”
    “Yep.” He stares at the tabletop.
    Then I get it.
    “Felix,” I say, “what did your father tell you about me?”
    He looks away. Bingo.
    “Go ahead,” I insist. “I’m not going to flip out. I won’t even get a bit upset.”
    He remains silent.
    “Come on, Felix. Did he tell you about . . . about my mother?”
    Felix nods and looks over at me. “Why are you laughing?” he says, appalled.
    “I always laugh when I shouldn’t,” I say. “Let me guess what he told you. He said that my mother was shot by my stepfather. That it created quite a furor. A huge story that made headlines all across the country. That I’m a poor little orphan—but a smart one, and one whose story is well known. And that you shouldn’t bother me with questions. Am I right?”
    Felix goes so pale that his freckles stand out. “That’s not the way he said it,” he mumbles hoarsely. “It was that you . . . that your . . . that . . . there was a family tragedy or something. What you said . . . is that . . . is that all true?”
    I sigh. “Where was the cheese again?” I ask. “I’m not into jam.”
    Felix jumps up and nearly knocks his chair over.
    “Here,” he says, still looking at me in shock. “I . . . uh . . . I don’t know what to say.”
    “It’s the same for most everybody,” I say. “You’re in good company.” I smile encouragingly at him. He grimaces back.
    “Hey,” I say. “Life is beautiful. Sometimes. You know who you look like?”
    “Yeah, I know,” he murmurs. “The guy who plays Ron Weasley in the Harry Potter movies.”
    “Yes, but more in the later movies. When he had long hair.”
    “Have you seen them?”
    “Yeah,” I say seriously. “Because of my mother. She loved Harry Potter. Like loads of people. She couldn’t wait for each new installment. And then . . . you know . . . I had to watch the last movie . . . without her.”
    I stand up and walk to the window.
    When I turn around, big Felix looks very small