Page 11 of Harvest Brew With the Mountain Man
“Uh,” he rubs his neck. “I mean, mostly me. Internet helped.”
“You did this?” I pan my arm out at his living, dining, and kitchen area. “The wall art and accessories, too?”
There’s that boyish manner that West hid with humor, but I always caught it; the shy boy who wanted to be liked, wanted approval. I understand that more than most. I was the later-in-life surprise baby, ten years my brother’s junior. As the baby, I wasn’t typically spoiled. I was loved, but at the same time, I feltout of step. My mother desperately wanted me to love pink and frilly dresses. I wanted black Docks and Converse.
I experimented with designing a lot. My room was my canvas, to my parents’ dismay. Sometimes, I would give in just to see relief in their faces.
“Like I said,” West turns, observing his space, “the internet is a magical place for information.”
“You realize, this is what I do, right? For a living? I got my degree in Interior Design. Trust me. This is not an accident brought by Google. You have a natural eye, West.”
“Wait. You studied Design?” he asks.
“Geez. You never asked about me, huh?” I tease, but teenage Camille is a bit hurt by that, which is dumb, so I push away the sting.
“To be fair, would Styx know the difference between Interior Design and Painter?”
I scoff. “True.”
“And I did,” he says, walking over to the kitchen. “Ask about you. And to make my point, I believe Styx said you were studying Art. That’s it.”
Some of the sting from earlier dissipates. “Sounds like my brother. All he knows is motorcycles, guns, and women. Oh, and bourbon.”
“True,” he laughs, opening the fridge. “Did you eat before your road trip?”
My stomach answers for me, rumbling loud enough for West to hear.
“That answers that. Have a seat, Lane. I’ll whip you up West’s famous fried bologna.”
I slide into the ebony-stained wooden stool with plush, dark beige cushions. “Didn’t some celebrity make that a thing?”
“Pff,” he dismisses with a wave of his hand that holds a packet of bologna. “I perfect that shit. Just wait.”
I laugh, watching him take all the ingredients out and then prep a pan with butter. Quietly, we comfortably sit in his kitchen, only the sizzle of ingredients heating up accompanying us. I study his movements. His capable hands, so much bigger than my own, yet gracefully prepare a simple meal of sourdough bread, lightly toasted in the pan, a couple of freshly sliced cheeses, bacon in a separate pan, Dijon mustard, then he finishes them off with pickles.
“None of this contains or is made in factories with nuts,” he says quietly, putting the sandwiches together on the butcher block.
“You remembered?” I’m allergic to tree nuts. Made for a not-so-fun childhood, needing to be extra vigilant of what and where I ate.
“Of course. One doesn’t forget something that important, Nyx.”
He plates the sandwiches and slides mine across the counter. My eyes widen, looking at this massive protein punch.
“Well, damn,” I say, picking up one half he cut. “Bon apple-tit, as they say.” I hold up my half to cheers.
Chuckling deeply, he smiles and cheers his half to mine. “Bon apple-tit.”
Smiling, we both bite into our sandwiches, the crunch echoing.
“Oh, shit,” I say around a mouthful.
Creamy, gooey cheese, salty crunch from the bacon, and the fried edges of the bologna, then the crisp bite of the mustard and pickles. “Are you for real with this?” I exclaim after swallowing.
“I told you. Better than, I forget what’s-his-name’s version.”
“I’m gonna have to agree with you on that. And I’ve had what’s-his-name’s at a restaurant before.”
“No shit?”
