“We have our Rolls-Royce,” I agreed, still a bit stunned by the discovery. Even after I left the way I had, Karla kept hold of her promise. I proudly kept my promise, too. On days when life felt heavy, Rolls was a reminder of something good, something that felt right.
I set my brown paper bag down and then lowered myself to begin rubbing Royce’s belly as his purrs grew louder and louder. I snickered to myself as I watched the big gray fluff ball fall into bliss from the belly pets. “I’ve never met a cat that loves belly rubs more than Rolls,” I said.
“Well, meet Royce. The most dramatic cat of all cats.” Karla laughed.
God, that sound.
I wanted to live in her laughter.
Pull yourself together, Ash.
It was just two old friends hanging out. Nothing more, nothing less. Did I have a crush on Karla when I left all those years ago? Yeah. How could I not? Even with her darkness, she still felt like the brightest light. After my father passed away, Ithought about her a lot. I thought about us a lot, and what we could’ve been if I had made it back to Chicago for spring break. I wondered if we would’ve fallen deeper in love. I wondered how often I would’ve held her and kissed her.
Then I forced myself to stop wondering. The idea of us being an us was nothing more than a dream that wouldn’t become a reality. I put the thought of her aside.
I cleared my throat as I tried to shove my thoughts of what we could’ve been if I hadn’t run away all those years ago to the back of my mind. “I got drinks and dessert,” I said, picking up the paper bag. “Lemon bars and French 75s.”
“Oh, fancy, fancy.” Karla grinned. “Lemon bars are one of my favorite desserts. I’ve never had a French 75, though.”
Me either, other than the five I had yesterday when I was doing taste tests.
“I think you’ll like it,” I said as I took the bag to the dining room table and unloaded everything.
“I know I will. As far as dinner goes...” She walked over to her stove, grabbed her oven mitts, and pulled out a tray from the oven. Her smile was beaming as she held it up in the air.
“Chicken wings. That’s great!”
“Not just any chicken wings,” she said as she placed them in a serving bowl. She walked them over to the dining room table that was set with mismatched plate settings—which, again, cool as ever—and placed the bowl down.
She then went to her cupboard and pulled out an array of hot sauces that said “Hot Ones” on them.
I arched my eyebrow. “Hot Ones? Like from the show?”
She nodded. “I figured we could catch up with one another and playHot Oneswith all the different hot sauces they use on the show.” Her nose wrinkled up as the excitement in her tone began to grow uncertain. “Unless this is a completely cornyidea, and now that I think about it, it’s a completely corny and insane idea, and we can just eat the chicken wings plain and—”
I caught her forearm as she began to turn to put the hot sauces away. “Karla, we are going to playHot Onesright now. All the way down to the last dab.”
She smiled again, and I loved it again.
We set up the table, laying out ten wings in front of each of us as we sat across from each other. The whole concept of the showHot Oneswas brilliant to me. Bring celebrities onto the show and pretty much have them yap on about their newest projects while they fight the urge to die while eating increasingly hot chicken wings.
It was ridiculous in the most satisfying way.
“I have a feeling we are both going to regret this,” I said as Karla poured two glasses of milk to go with the wings in case the intensity of the heat got too high.
“We’ll do great,” she replied, taking her seat across from me. For a second as I looked across at her, I felt a wave of peace. I didn’t know staring into a person’s eyes could do that—cause the whole universe to slow down.
“Cheers,” Karla stated as she held up her first wing.
I grabbed mine and tapped hers with it. “Cheers.”
I took a bite of the first wing with no sauce. So far, so good.
“You seasoned the hell out of that,” I told her, cleaning the bone.
“I know my way around the kitchen,” she replied. “My therapist suggested I pick up a hobby that would make me feel connected to my mom. She used to love to cook. I took a lot of cooking classes over the past few years, and I love it just as much as my mom did.”
I smiled. “I love that. My mom loves to cook, too. I miss her meals. What’s your favorite thing to cook?”
