Your Darcy theory,Hayley.
Right. If people make Levi uncomfortable, then sitting by himself would make sense. I think?
Levi folds his hands and closes his eyes. I mimic his posture and prepare for a blessing over the meal.
Nothing happens.
I peek out behind a squinted lid.
Levi mouths the wordamenand lifts his head.
A silent prayer, then. I say my own quickly, along with a plea for a lightning bolt of inspiration on how to put my host at ease since I don’t know how long we’re going to be forced to be housemates and I hate the thought that I’m making him miserable by being here.
We build our tacos, and I give myself a moment of reprieve from trying to come up with something to converse over. Talking with your mouth full is poor manners, after all. I take a bite, the hard shell crunching between my teeth and the spices exploding on my tongue.
Alert! Atomic-level explosion happening! My eyes and nose immediately water, and I cough. My mouth is on fire. I finally manage to swallow the inferno, then reach for a glass that isn’t there to put the flames out. “Water,” I croak.
Levi leaves and comes back a moment later with a bottle of water. “Too spicy?” he asks like I didn’t just eviscerate every single one of my taste buds.
I take a play out of his book and don’t bother answering. Instead, I lift my plate and scoot down the table to his end, which just so happens to be where the container of sour cream is. After scooping copious amounts of sour cream on the rest of my taco in hopes that the dairy will bring down the heat level, I plant myself in the seat beside him.
He stiffens but isn’t so rude as to get up and pretend thatwe’re playing musical chairs right now. I pick up my taco and take another loud bite, thankfully not choking this time. I peek at Levi as I chew. A taco is dwarfed in one of his massive hands. His other hand rests on top of his thigh, his thumb tucked into a tight fist. He looks like he doesn’t want to be sitting at this table with me, and I know now’s the time to check off that box in my journal and get him to relax, ease his anxiety.
Idle chatter commence.
“So, I don’t know if you know this, but Glen Bell, you know, the founder of Taco Bell? Well, he claims that he invented the idea of the hard-shell taco. He was looking for a fast-food alternative to the ever-popular hamburger.” I take another bite and chew. “He wanted to give Americans something different but familiar while also staying true to a fast-food rule—that the meal can be eaten with one hand on the go.” Another bite. Chew. “He might have made the Tex-Mex taco popular, don’t get me wrong, but there were patents for a metal taco mold to make your own hard shells at home before Glen Bell ever opened his first restaurant. So, he might have made the taco popular, but he definitely didn’t invent the concept.”
The vein that runs along Levi’s temple throbs. He seems to be getting more tense beside me, not less. Maybe if I keep talking?
“Another interesting tidbit about Taco Bell is that it didn’t always ‘think outside the bun’ like the slogan claims. A chili burger, of all things, was on its original menu. But the franchise does do a good job at innovation, I’ll give them that. Did you know that it took a team of engineers over two years and over forty recipes to get the Doritos Locos Taco right?” I laugh, a sort of unhinged sound because I realize the ridiculousness of all these off-the-wall facts about a fast-food chain and the fact that I’m running out of said facts themselves. “Oh, and the first restaurants had actual mariachi bands playing. I like mariachi music. Do you like mariachi music?”
Levi shoots out of his seat, looking more like the lion I had mentally named him early. A caged one, at that. His hair is a wild mane about him and he has muscles rippling under his clothes. He glares down at me, his arms flexed and hands fisted at his sides. “Stop. Talking. Just ... for the love, stop talking. You said I wouldn’t even know you were here. You said it twice. But you haven’t let up. Not once. You’re here. You’re everywhere, and I can’t ... just stop ... I need...”
But he doesn’t articulate what he needs. Instead, he makes that growl that sounds like a curse and storms toward the bedrooms at the back of the house in an angry huff. I brace for the slam of a door that never comes, stunned speechless.
9
Well, that had been a certifiable disaster.
I slump in my chair, my spine resting on the carved back of the wooden seat as I stare unseeing at the taco trimmings laid out on the table before me. My ears are ringing from the verbal slap to the face I’ve just taken, and I’m trying to process—
Huh. I think I’m trying to process the list of things I need to process because I haven’t even been able to figure that part out yet. This day has been nothing but a whirlwind of disasters.
I should probably apologize, though. That should probably be number one on the processing list.
I rotate in my seat to peek behind me. I can’t actually see the door to Levi’s room and definitely don’t have Superman’s X-ray vision to seethroughsaid door to check on the man, but I stare in that direction anyway because, well, I don’t really know why.
Levi’s upset. Because of me. So, I should apologize.
I nibble on the inside of my bottom lip but make no move to stand, let alone walk down the short hall and knock on his door. To be honest, I’m kind of afraid to speak to him at this exact moment, even if it’s to ask for his forgiveness. He’salready bitten my head off. I don’t want to have him chew me up and spit me out too.
I think back to everything I’ve said today, to everything I’ve done. I’ve never stopped trying to be optimistic and look on the bright side when I had every right to indulge in at least a little bit of complaint. I’ve never stopped being friendly, replying with sweetness when all I got was sour in return. I never stopped looking for opportunities or thinking up ways to try to ease the sharp edges of this situation and make Levi more comfortable.
Are those the things he wants me to stop doing? To let up on?
My arms cross over my chest, and now I’m processing in the center of a stew pot. My internal temperature is rising with my indignation.
Now I kind of want to march my heinie down that short hall and pound a fist on his bedroom door and give him a piece of my mind. He can’t just erupt all over me like he’s Vesuvius and I’m Pompeii. I’ve been a verifiable delight today. A delight, I tell you! I don’t know what he has to complain about.I’mthe one who’s had to deal with his surly attitude and inscrutability. To not let it sting every time he’s immediately wiped at any part of his skin that came in contact with mine or every time he’s flinched for no other reason than because I’ve just been myself.
