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Despite the spell of breathless tingling I’m suffering in this moment, he is completely unaffected.
He doesn’t belong to you, Elowyn. You don’t even know enough about the man to buy him a simple thank you gift.
Right as I think I might die from the prolonged awkwardness, his stern face cracks into the smallest of smiles. And he laughs. It’s quiet, more of a series of huffs than a real guffaw, but it’s something. It completely transforms his face from hot to downright dreamy. Caught in the spirit of the moment, my mouth once again gets ahead of my ability to think.
I hiss in a breath. “I’m about to make dinner before I leave for work. Any chance you want to join me? Unless you’re eating with someone… else?”
He pauses, considering. Time stops while I wait for the answer, praying that he doesn’t think of me as some weirdo for even making the offer. I’m on the verge of rescinding the invitation when he startles me with a quiet and tentative, “Um… okay. And there’s no one else.”
I sputter through some excuse about needing to iron my work apron first, then all but sprint out of the door and into my own apartment. With no real food inside my kitchen, I had no intention of making dinner. I was simply going to subsist on the remains of the cinnamon roll in my stomach and hope for the best, maybe scavenge some fries during the shift later from one of the guys on the line. I open my fridge and stare in a blind panic. There’s the half-eaten pizza from yesterday, but that feels rude and unhinged to offer him my leftovers. Beyond that, there’s a bottle of cold brew coffee, a single box of baking soda, two sad-looking apples, and a bag of shredded cheese. The cheese gives me an idea.
I open the pantry to find a loaf of sandwich bread and two cans of tomato soup. While not gourmet, it certainly resembles a meal that a moderately well-adjusted human being would eat, and not some depraved excuse to drag my hot neighbor—the one who I just found out has no one else—into my apartment.
“And there’s no one else.”
The way that revelation fell from his lips did something to my insides.
I move quickly enough that I’m starting to plate things by the time he comes in. I burned one of the grilled cheeses and reluctantly give that one to myself, flipping it over so the black bits are hidden by the plate.
Weston sniffs the air, trying not to look around at the apartment too much. I clear a space on the counter that sits between the kitchenette and the living area, before setting down the plates and bowls.
“Do you want something to drink? I have… coffee. And water. And… ice.” The high-pitched, frantic tone of my voice makes me wince.
“I guess I’ll have an iced water, then. Thanks.” He sits stiffly on one of the two stools at the counter. “Oh, snap. Did you make tomato soup and grilled cheese?”
I consider pouring myself an iced coffee but recall the cinnamon roll and coffee at the mall, feeling the way my heart is doing repetitive hummingbird flaps against my ribs. I settle for an iced water to go with his.
I flick my wrist toward the plate. “Yeah, it’s just the canned stuff, though. Don’t get too excited.”
“No, no. The canned stuff is the best,” he insists, waving his spoon in the air. “You don’t want to get fancy with it. My mom used to make this for me all the time. She worked at a diner—still does. I could tell when she’d have a rough shift ‘cuz she’d always make like, breakfast for dinner or tomato soup and grilled cheese. She was just like you about it, all sheepish and apologetic. But damn, if that stuff wasn’t the absolute best. Michelin-star meal to a kid. Just the right amount of sodium and carbs and high fructose corn syrup, you know.”
My heart slams against my ribcage. It’s the most Weston has ever spoken to me in one go. I’m not sure what to do with myself, so I just nod and smile, pushing my spoon into my soup. We take a few bites in silence.
He flexes his jaw back and forth as he chews. “You don’t seem like the server at a bar type.”
“Oh?” The statement strikes me as incredibly left-field. I’m not sure if I should take it as a compliment or an insult. “What ‘type’ do I seem then if you know me so well?”
His expressive eyes regard me, and I feel more seen than I have in quite some time. “Professional. Career driven. Determined.”
A compliment then. I’ve never been good at taking those. I swallow a lump of grilled cheese without chewing. “I tried that already.”
He blinks once. Twice. “What stopped you?”
“Well. I uh. I failed. Ha, right?” Weston was open about his mother, so I guess I should be open, too. This might be the only chance I get to talk to him like a genuine person before he decides I’m more trouble than I’m worth. “My parents wanted me to—well.Iwanted to be a pharmacist and I was doing really well but… I failed the math classes. Just could not do it. Never been my strong suit. And I studied. I mean reallystudied. I went to all the office hours. I did the practice sheets and all the homework. And it just did not help. No progress whatsoever. Like trying to teach a fish to ride a bicycle. So I’m a big, fat failure.”
I wait for Weston to say something. Hoping for some kind of comfort or acknowledgment. Maybe a funny anecdote about not being good with numbers or even a simple “that sucks.” I spent so long feeling like a disappointment to everyone around me that it would be nice for someone to tell me I’m not.
The air stalls between us.
“Huh.”
That’s all I get. A single syllable around a mouthful of sandwich and a swig of water. I want to shrivel up and die.
“I should probably get—” I gesture vaguely at the dirty dishes and the clock, hoping he understands and leaves before I embarrass myself any further. God, why did I tell him all that? Why do I always let my mouth run away with me? The way it stands now, I’m due for another string of sleepless nights while I replay my mortification on a loop in my mind.
“Yeah, I gotta get moving or we’re both gonna be late.” Weston places his dishes in the sink, giving them a polite rinse before washing his hands. “Thanks for the food, though. Glad you found your lucky hair tie.”
And just like that, Weston slips out my front door without another word. I replay the conversation as I get ready to leave, thinking about the way he talked about his mom while I braid my hair. My instinct was right—there is a soft caring person in there somewhere. The sort of guy who stops a girl from getting harassed in the hallway and eats canned tomato soup because his mom used to make it. It’s just buried beneath a wall of something else.
