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“You know they shot Mata Hari?”
“Well, shit.” Theo’s tea towel goes limp in her hands.
I hate that I told her.
That night,I lie in bed, fighting the urge to sneak down the hall.
Every time I toss and turn, I wonder if Theo’s doing the same. I wonder if she’s hot and restless like me, tormented by tantalizing memories of the night before…or if she slipped directly off to sleep.
Once, I even slide out from under the sheets and go stand in the hall, listening. But without the buzz of a vibrator, there’s no way to know if she’s awake on the other side of her door.
I trudge back to my room, cursing myself for being so weak.
Forget about Theo. Go to bed.
But I can’t stop thinking about that loose, tattered T-shirt, which has somehow become the sexiest piece of clothing that’s ever draped a female form…
I think how her breasts moved beneath the fabric.
I haven’t seen them naked yet.
When I finally fall asleep, my dreams are fucking filthy.
On Wednesday,I arrive home to my dad manning the grill while Theo mixes up a pitcher of fresh limeade. This is surprising both because my dad can’t cook and because he’s wearing the pink, frilly apron.
“That’s mine,” I tell him.
“Finders keepers,” he grunts.
He burned the garlic bread, but Theo eats it anyway to encourage him.
“You don’t have to do that,” I tell her. “You’ll get sick.”
She steps on my foot beneath the table, whispering, “Be nice.”
“No…,”I whisper back, loud enough for my dad to hear. “He has to know; he burned the shit out of that…”
“I probably had the heat up too high,” Theo says. “I do it under the broiler at home.”
“Don’t make excuses for me.” My dad takes a bite of the most charred piece of toast. It makes an awful crunching sound, black flakes raining down.
“You don’t have to punish yourself!” Theo plucks it out of his hand, laughing, and replaces it with one that’s less burnt.
Her lasagna makes me want to start some sort of Garfield-like religion. It’s so good I’m starting to become suspicious of her.
“How do you make the best version of everything I ever ate?”
It’s hard for Theo to accept compliments. She wants them, she needs them, but when she gets them, it’s like hot, searing coals. She has to sizzle and endure.
She flaps her hand like it will cool off her face. “I was trying a new thing—cottage cheese instead of ricotta.”
“It worked.” I tilt my plate to shovel the last bites into my mouth.
Thursday,I come home to a yard lit with fairy lights. The lights are woven all through the pergola, gilding the leaves, casting a glow over the yard. Someone trimmed back the hedges and pulled up the vines so the space around the picnic table is clear. Even the firepit has been repaired.
Theo pops her head out. “I thought after dinner we could make s’mores!”
I grab her elbow as she carries plates from the kitchen. “Did you do all this?”
