I wasn't saying it to be funny, but she laughs anyway. And honestly, the sound isn't terrible.
“No. Not in prison, like you. But it was a type of prison, I guess.”
“Well then. I guess you know exactly how I fucking feel then.”
At the slump of her shoulders and downcast eyes, I feel like shit again. I know she's actually trying, for whatever reason, and I can't seem to stop being a dick to her.
Running a hand over my face, I push out a, “Sorry.”
It's no surprise that she doesn't immediately respond. The silence stretches between us, causing an uncomfortable feeling to surface in me. Thankfully, after a few long seconds, she does finally respond.
“I was merely stating that I came here for a fresh start as well. I didn't mean to imply that I know what your life has been like. Because I really don't.”
She's absolutely right about that. No one can possibly know what I've been through. And I appreciate that she acknowledged that at least. She really didn't deserve my harsh words.
The fish should be done by now, so I find a stump that can be used as a make-shift table between the two of us, and then use two smaller pieces of wood to lift up the fish and put it on the stump.
“You can have some,” I offer as I open the foil and push the extra fork toward her. “If you want.”
Remi doesn't hesitate to get up from her spot and come sit by the stump. Instinctively I look over my shoulder at the camera for my reassurance before picking up my own fork.
When I look at her again, she's got another smile on her face, obviously taking my peace offering as I intended.
We eat quietly for a few minutes, with the sounds of the crackling wood filling in the silence. But this time, the silence doesn't feel suffocating.
It's weird eating with someone like this, spending time with someone like this.
Especially a woman.
“This is really good. I've never had fish this fresh,” Remi says, nodding her head. “You're a good cook.”
“Hardly,” I mumble.
“What else do you cook?” she asks, obviously trying to make small talk.
Instead of shutting her down again, I decide to answer her question truthfully. It's not like it's anything interesting anyway.
“Mac 'N' Cheese from a box. Frozen dinners.”
“Oh,” she says. “Didn't you get to do, like, courses and stuff in prison? Cooking classes?”
I almost scoff at her question. She probably thinks that it was all just like how it is in the movies. And maybe it is like that in some of the minimum-security facilities, but that's not where I went. Almost every day was a struggle against other inmates, the guards, or even my own demons, to stay alive. It was filthy, it was cold, and it stunk. So no, I sure as hell didn't do any cooking classesin prison. And my mom never taught me before I went.
“Nope. I've never learned.”
Remi takes another bite of the fish and swallows it down with a contented sigh. “Well, I'd be happy to teach you how to make some stuff.”
“And why would you do that?” My eyebrows furrow together.
“Just because.” She shrugs. “Spaghetti is pretty easy to make. Maybe someday you could come to my place since I have all of the stuff, and I can show you.”
I look at her in disbelief. A fucking cooking lesson? Is she serious right now? She appears to be.
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
