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“Sorry, that was my cousin.” She looks over my shoulder, then sits on the counter in the corner of the kitchen.
“Word gets around fast, huh?”
She laughs. “Yeah, although this is Easton, the one who thought I should’ve brought you home with me the other day.”
I side-eye her and again, her cheeks flush pink. “Imagine if you had?”
“Then you probably wouldn’t be making me dinner because I wouldn’t have let you move in with me.”
I put the chicken in the skillet and throw away the scraps I didn’t use, then I wash my hands in the sink. She’s close to the sink and watches me soap my hands before she leans over and grabs a paper towel off the spool, handing it to me.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” She’s as sweet and welcoming as she is standoffish. Her legs swing back and forth, and her hands are tucked under her thighs. “So, you cook, huh?”
“When you live by yourself, fast food or takeout gets old fast. I started fiddling with recipes, ones that wouldn’t take much time.” I flip the chicken and chop up the rest of the ingredients. “It doesn’t take much.”
“I wouldn’t know. I’m not a good cook.” She jumps off the counter. “Want a glass of wine?”
“I’d love one.”
She opens the bottle of white wine, pours a glass for each of us, and hands me one. I pretend to swirl it and smell it before taking a small taste.
“Seriously, is this another thing I’m finding out about you?” she asks.
“I’m kidding. I wouldn’t know a good wine over a bad one, but I’ve had this one before. That’s why I picked it.”
“Impostor!” She laughs.
While I cook, she clears off the dining table that I’m guessing doesn’t get used a lot since there are some books and magazines on the surface. It’s not cluttered, but it’s not meticulous either.
She has a story, I’m sure of it. Especially with how protective the people who love her are. Her mom did not look happy to see me next to her tonight.
“My—” She looks at me as if someone just broke in and there’s a gun pointed at her temple.
“Who?” She was obviously going to mention someone.
She sighs. “There’s something you should know about me. It won’t take you long to find out once people get word that you’re my roommate anyway.”
I put down the stirring spoon. From her body language, I can tell this is something she’s either worried to share with me or wishes she didn’t have to. I’m not going to take her trust lightly and I don’t want her to feel pressured, so I continue cooking dinner without giving her all my attention.
“What is it?” I ask as though I could take or leave her answer when really, I’m near desperate to know what she’s going to say.
“Well… I was married. Years ago. I was going to say he loved wine and was trying to teach me. He always laughed and said that I was more of a beer girl like my dad. Which is true.”
Jesus, she was married young. But there’s real pain in her eyes, so I don’t bother inquiring into that facet of her story. I find myself wanting to wrap my hands around the throat of whatever asshole hurt her so badly.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”
She opens her mouth but shuts it right away. “It’s why some people are kind of protective of me around here. They’re afraid I’ll get my heart broken again.”
I nod. “I can see that. If you were my cousin or sister, I’d feel the same way.”
Once she turns to set the table, I stir the chicken mixture again. Grabbing the premade salad kit from the fridge, I prepare that, and once I’m finished, she takes then bowl to the table.
We work in silence until she disappears into the bathroom for a few minutes, emerging with red-rimmed eyes. I’m just putting the plate of chicken on the table when she walks past me.
I grab her wrist lightly. “I’m really sorry your first marriage didn’t work out. I’ll tell you something about myself to make us even.”
