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A violent exhale leaves my lips at the same time as a satisfied smirk curls on the corner of my lips.
She made the right decision.
I close the door. I’m about to get in the bed next to her when she stops me.
“Tell me something about your mom.”
I instantly tense up. Not this again. “Why? What are you trying to do?”
“I’m trying to talk. You know, talking? That thing people do when they’re sleeping together and trying to get to know each other? Just tell me one thing, anything. It can be good, bad, funny, or sad. I don’t care, but I want you to tell me something about her.”
“Or what?”
She gives a world weary sigh. “Or nothing, Rogue. I’m not going to keep browbeating you into every miniscule step forward by threatening you. You don’t have to tell me anything.” She says, then pauses. Her voice is small and sincere when she speaks again. “But I want to know about her. And you.”
“Why?”
“Maybe because I like you?”
“I told you not to.”
“You told me not to fall in love with you, and I won’t. But I have to like you to spend this much time with you. To sleep with you and have sex with you every night. I see you more than I see my best friend, obviously I’m going to develop some feelings for you.”
“I find that hard to believe.” I say with a scoff, looking away from her.
“You find it hard to believe that I’d like you?”
I work my jaw so hard, I’m afraid it’ll snap.
“Whether you believe it or not, I do. Even though you make it really fucking hard sometimes when you treat me like shit. But I think deep down, you’re a good person.”
“You’re delusional.”
“Maybe. But I know you like me too. Otherwise, you would have let me walk out today.”
“Maybe you’re just a really good fuck.”
“I can be both a ‘good fuck’ as you so gallantly put it, and someone you enjoy spending time with.” She replies. “You’re doing it again by the way. Pushing me away the minute I try to have a real conversation with you.”
I hmph in response. She wraps her arms around my waist, placing her chin on my chest as she looks up at me.
“Just tell me one thing.”
“Only one?”
“Pinky promise.” She answers, with a conspiratorial wink.
“She used to cook for me.”
A smile blooms on her face but she works to contain it, clearly afraid it’ll scare me off. “What would she make?”
“A bunch of shit. She’s Lebanese, she grew up right outside of Beirut, so she used to make me a lot of dishes from home. Tabbouleh, labneh, manaqish, this amazing smoky baba ghanouj that I think about sometimes.”
I think about it a lot actually. Cooking for others was her love language and I’d often come home from school to the smell of delicious aromas filling the air.
“I didn’t know she was Lebanese. That explains your eyes.” She says, tracing my face with a finger. “I’m so jealous of your eyelashes.” She adds with a small laugh.
“She used to have me make a wish every time an eyelash fell on my cheek. The wish would only come true if I could correctly guess what cheek it was on.”
