Chasing Luck
three years. Maybe longer, maybe not. She never talks to me."
    “The woman has worked here for years and you don’t know her?”
    I don’t answer. The smell of cooking fills the kitchen.
    He scoops steaming eggs onto a plate. Somewhere along the line, he placed bread in the toaster and I hadn't noticed. He adds those to the plate before bringing it to the table and placing it before me.
    "Don't wait for me. Cold eggs are terrible," he says.
    I take a bite and moan. "Oh my freaking goodness. These are the best eggs I've ever had."
    "Best coffee, best eggs. Hmm…" He brings another plate to the table and sits across from me.
    "I can make toast." I roll my eyes. That was the stupidest thing that's ever left my mouth.
    Ace smiles across the table at me. "So, have you called the hospital to check on Billy?"
    "I called several times during the night. He's in stable condition. You were right. It was his heart. The doctor says I can see him this morning."
    "Good. I'll take you to visit."
    "Then what?"
    "Can we find out where those boxes were manufactured?"
    "I'll do a web search. There's a signature."
    "Signature?"
    "Yeah. You know how an artist will sign a painting? The artist signed the largest box." I take my coffee cup to the pot and fill it. Then, I follow Ace's exact instructions on milk and sugar.
    “So does this help us?”
    “It should be easy enough to find the artist online. Everything is online these days.” Except for you, Ace Sloan.
    "Perfect. I'll clean up here and you try to find the manufacturer."
    "Ace? Thanks for what you're doing."
    "A paycheck is a paycheck."
    The answer disappoints me, but what did I expect?

13

Ace
    “ I ’m running on empty ; come closer. Fill me up.” ~Jelly Bean Queen

    I n Malerie's kitchen , I open cabinet doors and take inventory like I’m preparing for the apocalypse. One full cupboard after another stretches out in front of me like a never-ending cornucopia. Checking out the supplies is a nervous habit. I don't even realize I've been doing it for ten minutes until I've completed the circle of cabinets, opened every door, checked the fridge, found the pantry. It’s like a magic hidden door to a wonderful place that could hold my living room inside. Shelves upon shelves of canned food and jars and spices in its belly. It's stocked with enough food to survive a nuclear fallout.
    “What are you doing?” Malerie strolls into the middle of the kitchen. Her head’s cocked to one side and she takes baby steps toward to the commercial grade stove.
    How long has she been standing there? I'm not ashamed of my idiosyncrasies, only kicking myself for doing it subconsciously.
    “Nothing. Just curious,” I answer as nonchalantly as one can when caught exposed. I’ll start whistling a damn tune next if I exaggerate any more.
    The fact is, no matter how far I get from my past, food matters. I take a lot of pride in the fact I made her a meal she enjoyed so much. Granted, anyone can do scrambled eggs.
    My little brother Joe didn't care if I cooked or what I cooked. But I did it anyways. Truth be told, I was the hungry one. Not him. And that scared me because I was always healthy and always hungry.
    It's sad that I fall into doing food inventory when I'm a grown man. I mentally mark it on my list of bad habits to break.
    “Are you looking for something? Not like I know where stuff is, but I could help you look.” She takes another step forward.
    “No.” I laugh at myself. “Going to get cleaned up.” I leave the kitchen and grab my socks and boots from the living room. I can’t wait to get in the shower. If the kitchen is stocked, I bet all the bathrooms are, too.
    God, I love this house.
    I’m not disappointed. I step into the shower that is wider than the closet in my apartment. The plate-sized showerhead has more settings than an air-traffic control room.
    A half-hour later, I'm standing in front of the fireplace mantel fully dressed when she walks into the room. Her

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