Starting Point by N.R. Walker

starting dinner then got out of the car and walked up the steps. He stopped at the front door, as though we were an afterthought. I held Claude’s door open and waited for the little girl to climb out. She just kind of stood there, awkwardly, uncertain, and for a moment I thought she was about to turn and run.
    “Come on,” I said, trying to reassure her with a smile. “You can have a hot shower and then watch some TV while we cook dinner, okay?”
    By the time Claude and I had walked inside, Kira was already in the kitchen. I grabbed a T-shirt and a towel then showed Claude the bathroom. “We can wash and dry your clothes so they’re ready in the morning,” I told her. “One of my shirts is the best I can do for PJs. Is that okay?”
    She nodded and shrugged. “I guess.”
    I rummaged through the cabinet drawer and found a new toothbrush. I held it out to her. “For you.”
    She took the toothbrush, and as I turned to leave her alone, she stopped me. “Matt, is Kira mad?”
    “No,” I answered reflexively. “‘Course not.” I waved my hand towards the shower. “Feel free to use the shampoo and conditioner. It’s only boy stuff, so it might not smell real pretty, but it’ll have to do.”
    She kind of smiled, so I pulled the door and headed towards the kitchen.
    Kira had sliced up some left over beef and scraped the slivers of meat into a saucepan on the stove. From the bottles on the counter, I gathered he’d thrown in some soy and mirin into some kind of broth.
    “What are you making?”
    “Nikujaga.”
    “Huh?”
    “Niku — ” he started to say again, but stopped. “It’s a type of stew. It’s Japanese. We don’t have any saki, so it won’t be right,” he said. He peeled a potato with firm, rigid strokes and sliced it with just as much anger.
    “Kira,” I said softly. “Can we talk about this?”
    He continued chopping, and I gathered his silence was in order to get the words right in his head. But his words never came. He sliced carrot, peas and shallots then added them to the small pot. He never said a word.
    “Kira.”
    “Later, Matt,” he said sharply. Then he sighed. “Later,” he said again, softer this time.
    “Are you mad at me?” I asked.
    “No.”
    “Are you mad at Claude?”
    “What? No,” he said, shaking his head. “God, no.” He turned back to the saucepan, put a small plate inside the pot—which was weird—and put the lid on. I wanted to ask what the hell he was cooking, but didn’t think it was the right time. His shoulders were tight and he ran his hand through his hair then turned around to face me. Just when I thought he was going to tell me what he was so clearly struggling to say, someone else spoke.
    “Matt?” Claude’s voice called out from the hall.
    I hadn’t heard the water turn off. “One sec,” I yelled back to her then spoke quietly to Kira. “You okay?”
    He nodded. “You better see what she wants.”
    “Okay.”
    She was standing in the hall holding her dirty clothes, wearing my shirt that came to her knees, with a towel wrapped around her hair. She looked tiny.
    And scared.
    “Feel better?” I asked brightly, my outward confidence belying the internal insecurity I felt. I had no clue what I was doing. What the hell were we thinking? Bringing a small kid back to our house? I mean, fuck! The ramifications could be catastrophic.
    Maybe this was what Kira was livid about. Maybe he saw what I didn’t. Maybe he was right. Fuck.
    “Um, what do you want me to do with these?” she asked, holding out her dirty clothes.
    “Um, how about I do you a swap?” I asked. Walking to the linen press, I pulled out a blanket. “Here, wrap this around you to keep yourself nice and warm, and I’ll put your clothes in the wash.”
    I flicked out the blanket and draped it around her little shoulders. It was hardly cold, but I figured it would make her feel safe. She was, after all, now in a strange house with two strange men.
    Oh, fuck. What have I