Page 17 of He Hate Me

“Burgers,” I say, because that’s what I always have on Friday nights. It’s a special treat for me because I have to watch my diet all the time.

“I’m sure I can do better than that.”

“Okay.” I don’t see the point of arguing about it.

We pull into the driveway a few minutes later, the house dark. Brandon gets out and helps me with my bag before we head inside.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell him, running upstairs, leaving him alone in the kitchen. Feeling a little grimy, I take a very quick shower, slather on some lotion, and get dressed in an oversized tee and an old pair of leggings.

In fifteen minutes, I’m back downstairs. Brandon is chopping something on the counter. He sniffs in my direction and smiles.

“Vanilla,” he says.

“You’re making something with vanilla?”

“No.” He chuckles. “You wanna get some plates out? It’s almost ready.”

“That fast?”

“It’s a simple dish.”

There’s a sizzle as he tosses whatever he was chopping into a pan. The smell of garlic fills the kitchen. I place the plates on the kitchen island and get cutlery out of the drawers. The sizzling intensifies again, and I peek over to see that he’s added halved grape tomatoes to the pan.

“You want something to drink?”

“Got beer?” he asks, as if Devin and Tanisha Thompson wouldn’t tan our hides for drinking their beer.

“I’ve got sparkling water.”

“That’s fine.”

A few minutes later I’m presented with a plate of pasta. It smells amazing and I’m totally impressed. He even serves it with a sprig of fresh basil on top. He sets his plate next to mine and sets down some extra grated Parmesan.

“This is good,” I tell him after taking a bite. It’s bowtie pasta with a bunch of chopped vegetables. The pasta is perfectly cooked, and the flavor is amazing. “You really know what you’re doing.”

“I told you,” he says, grinning.

I’m still really curious about what he wants from me tonight, but I decide to just wait for him to tell me when he’s ready. I am really hungry, and I give the food all my attention. It’s quiet in the kitchen except for the hum of the refrigerator and the clink of silverware on porcelain. I glance over at him sitting next to me. He’s wearing a faraway expression, focused on a spot high on the opposite wall. He takes a bite and chews, his firm jaw tightening. I notice his hands, large and long-fingered with blunt-cut nails. I suppose he feels my eyes on him because he turns his head, meeting my eyes frankly.

“What’s your favorite color?” he asks.

“Why do you want to know?” I’m mystified by this question. What’s his angle.

“It’s just a basic getting to know you question.”

“What if I don’t want you to get to know me?”

“Do you need to make everything a fight? It’s a pretty innocuous question. What’s your favorite color?”

“Bite me!”

“Happily. But I thought you might like just telling me something about you instead of me putting my mouth on you.”

Fucker.

“Yellow.”

“No, it isn’t.”