Page 19 of Easy Out

I uncap the water and gulp down half the bottle. “Thanks.”

“No problem. Here.” Lauren slides a plastic cutting board and knife toward me. Then a few onions and jalapenos get placed in front of me. “Dice. Chop. Whatever. Make them tiny and all the same size if you can.” I stare blankly at her and then at the vegetables. “This is punishment for victimizing Syd’s books. You should know better,” she teases me.

She’s right. I should. Lauren leans on the counter across from me. The movement pushes her tits together. As nice as they are, I can’t stop thinking about the view from behind. I discreetly adjust myself in my seat.

“One time, I left one of her books I borrowed open and face down on the coffee table,” Lauren says, oblivious to all the ways I’m imagining her pinned against the kitchen counter. I mentally shake my head clear and focus on Lauren’s story.

“It was less than three minutes while I went to the bathroom. She lost it. Didn’t talk to me for two days.” I grin. That sounds like Syd.

I take off my cap, rough up my mess of curls, and flip it back on the other way. Lauren clears her throat, gives me a half smile, then busies herself with the dishes in the sink. I should probably wash my hands before I get started.

With a smirk on my face, I crowd Lauren at the sink. Her shoulder rubs against my bicep. I reach over her arms and pump some soap into my hands.

My movements don’t slow her down. She continues to scrape at the dish she’s trying to clean. Do I have any effect on her at all, or is she good at hiding it?

“Towel?” I ask.

She bobs her head behind her. “Top drawer.”

Lauren finishes up at the sink. Then focuses on the pot full of water on the stove. She adds several spices and uncooked rice into the boiling water. It smells like home.

I try to focus on cutting vegetables. I can’t seem to take my eyes off Lauren. I wipe my eye with the back of my hand so I can see what I’m doing. Damn onions. These tears are blinding me. Lauren snickers as she grabs a handful of the onions, I painstakingly diced off my cutting board and drops them in a sauté pan.

“Not funny,” I growl.

“It kind of is. I cry every time too. I’ve tried all the tricks. Lighting a candle, chewing gum, and eating bread. Nothing worked. I even tried goggles once when I was a kid.” Lauren laughs at herself.

This girl is a conundrum. She is a mixture of tough and sweet. Hard and Soft. Friendly yet also closed off. I can’t figure her out.

“I bet you were cute.” Her eyes meet mine in surprise while she continues to push onions around the pan. “With the goggles.” What the hell? Shut up, man!

“I’m five-three. I’m always cute.” She grins at me, and that smile hits me in the chest. Mierda. This is not happening.

“You’re talkative today.” I nod. Considering I’ve never spoken to Lauren before last night, I can see how she would classify me as talkative, even if I’m far from it.

I would say she is the one who is surprisingly talkative today. I wasn’t sure what to expect this morning, but seeing Lauren so friendly was not it.

“You don’t like to talk.” It’s not a question. I don’t respond. It isn’t that I don’t like to talk. I don’t feel comfortable talking. For most of my life, I got teased because I had a stutter.

Around fourth or fifth grade, the bullying was so bad I stopped talking altogether unless absolutely necessary. Even then, it was clipped one-word answers.

In middle school, I was almost six feet tall. I was quiet and brooding. I was the tough guy with an attitude problem because I chose to hide the speech impediment I didn’t grow out of until I was in tenth grade.

It worked all through high school. No one messed with me. Girls thought my closed-off demeanor was attractive for whatever reason. Not that I ever entertained their advances.

Despite the loneliness I felt, and the deception of my character, I decided to continue the silent act in college. My dark hair and eyes help me pull off the grumpy, asshole jock persona well.

I don’t care what anyone thinks, anyway. No one here matters except for my close friends. I’m here to play baseball and get drafted. Not get caught up with girls and parties.

Lauren takes the rest of the onions and jalapenos I’ve chopped and throws them into the pan with a few pounds of ground beef. Who is she cooking all of this for?

“What are you making?” I ask, leaning over the pot and inhaling the cumin, coriander, and whatever else is simmering.

“Oh, it’s just a beef skillet. A little rice and ground beef. Some spices. Onions.” She elbows my side. “It’s simple and feeds a lot of people.”

“Are you feeding a lot of people?” Lauren stirs the rice ignoring my question.

“It also makes great leftovers. Syd and I can eat this all week,” she finally says. “You can take some home if you want. Here. Try a bite.” Lauren gets a spoon from a drawer and dips it into the mixture of ground beef, rice, jalapenos, and onions.

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