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“I was talking about soccer. You don’t watch any sports?” I ask. I know Tessa doesn’t.
Nora shakes her head. “Nope. I’d rather cut my own eyes out and eat them with ketchup.”
I laugh at her very detailed and fairly morbid reply.
“Well, then.” I reach for a scone that she already covered in icing and she stops my hand just before I grab it.
“You have to let the icing cool,” she explains, her hand still on mine.
“Just like three minutes,” Tessa adds.
Nora’s hand is so warm.
Why isn’t she letting go?
And why don’t I want her to?
I was supposed to be forgetting about any sort of attraction I have to her. I was supposed to get used to my spot in the friend zone. It seems pointless to keep asking myself these stupid questions about why I feel this or feel that, but I’m trying to feel slightly more in control of myself, and asking questions seems like a way to do that.
I need to constantly remind myself to stay in the friend zone. It’s hard to do this when she’s sitting here, looking at me like this, touching me like this, wearing that.
I glance down at our hands, hers darker than mine, and when my eyes catch hers, she seems to remember that she shouldn’t be holding my hand like this; friends don’t hold hands.
Tessa’s phone rings and Nora jumps. Her cheeks flare, and I want to reach for her again, but I can’t.
“It’s my boss. I’m going to take this,” Tessa says.
She pauses for a moment and glances at both of us, silently asking if we’re okay to be left alone alone.
Nora gives her a small smile, her eyes saying what her mouth—and mine—can’t.
With every step that Tessa takes down the hall, the air in the kitchen grows thicker. Nora keeps herself occupied by pulling a pan from the counter and tossing it into the sink. She turns on the water, grabs the bottle of dishwashing liquid, and gets to scrubbing. I don’t know if I should just stand here awkwardly while she washes the pan, or if I should just go in my room and spend the night alone, again.
I pull out my phone and scroll through the last few text messages I received. I have a text from Posey, a meme about baristas. A quiet laugh rocks through me and Nora’s shoulders tilt toward me.
She seems to stop herself before she completely turns around. She grabs the bottle of soap and squeezes again. Little angry bubbles float around her and I notice that she’s still scrubbing the same pan.
I take a silent step toward her and look into the sink. The pan is clean, no cake residue left, its surface all shiny despite a thick and completely unnecessary coat of bubbly soap. Her hands work at the already-clean pan and I take another step closer to her. My foot catches one of the legs of the wooden kitchen chairs and she jumps at the noise.
“So, how have you been? Anything new?” I ask, like I’ve never spoken to her before and like I didn’t just trip over a chair.
Nora’s shoulders lift with a deep breath and she shakes her head, her dark ponytail waving back and forth with her movements.
“Not really” is all she says, and her hands go back to scrubbing the pan. Finally, she rinses it and lays it to dry on the wire rack next to the sink.
Where is Tessa?I wish she would come back and break the awkwardness in this kitchen.
“How’s work going? Do you still like it there?” I just can’t shut the hell up.
