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He takes the sandwich back, taking a bite. “Not bad? It’s amazing.”
“Now this,” I say, gesturing to my mac and cheese. “Thisis life changing.”
Caleb unravels his cloth napkin, letting the silverware rattle on the table. Then, he picks up a fork and stabs it into my pasta.
“Hey!”
It disappears in less than a second. “You’re right.”
“Eat your own food.” I pull my plate closer to me, wrinkling my nose.
He chuckles and continues eating his sandwich. Every so often, he asks me a question, and I try not to answer defensively or sarcastically. We talk about bands we like, and by the time we finish eating, we’re discussing movies and TV shows.
Talking with Caleb about everyday things isn’t so bad. Except for his lack of taste in movies. That could use improvement.
“Well, what movies do you like to watch?” he asks.
“I like sci-fi movies and shows. Sometimes I watch ones that are funny because they’re so old, and then other times I like movies that really make you think. The kind of movie that’s so well written that it’s almost believable that you’re flying on a spaceship headed for Alpha Centauri.” My words continue to flood out. I can’t seem to stop. I’m still talking about TV shows when we walk outside.
A timid, lopsided grin covers his face.
“What?” I demand. “You think it’s silly, don’t you?”
“No, it’s not that,” he says, slowing as we near the car.
I skid to a stop, facing him. “Then, what?”
“I haven’t seen you get excited about something in a long time.” He opens the car door for me, leaning on it. “I like seeing this side of you.”
I tug at my sleeves, unsure how to respond. It would've been way easier if he had just called me a nerd and moved on. I could’ve rolled my eyes and shrugged it off. Instead, I’m stuck with a blank mind.
“Are you going to get in?”
I blink a couple of times, readjusting to the moment. “Oh, yeah.” I get into the car.
Caleb closes the door and heads around the front of the car. The whole time, my mind is plagued by his sentence—I like seeing this side of you.
What did he mean by that?
* * *
The car slowsto a stop in front of his house.
“So how was it?” he asks.
“How was what?”
He turns the car off, letting the engine fade. “All of it. Me? The food? The place? I thought you’d like it there because it was quiet. I know you don’t like loud places.”
I narrow my eyes. “How did you know that?”
He laughs, his cheeks turning pink. “For starters, you hate when I play the drums.”
“I wouldn’t hate them if you played them quieter.”
“They’re drums. They’re going to be loud.”
My face falls into a deadpan stare.
