Page 27 of Waiting For Ever
Tapping my fists on the sides of the sink, I step back and mentally prepare myself to head back to Allie’s for the night. But did Ever really need me there? Hell, she comfortedmelast night when I apparently called out in my sleep. I was thinking about Taya more and more lately. The first year was hard. The next two years, I threw myself into becoming something—something Allie needed for the businesses. Someone Taya would’ve been proud of. People needing me is my weak spot. Allie calls it my love language. In this case though, Allie needing my help with her businesses created a life for me, one I enjoy and am good at. I’m not going to throw it all away now. Even if she changed her mind, I would eventually get over it.
Just like you got over losing Taya?
I absently rub the tattoo as I turn away from the liar in the mirror.
***
The house is quiet when I walk in. No lights on, no noise whatsoever. I drop my keys into the bowl on the entryway table and peek into the kitchen as I head for the stairs. Empty. Upstairs, her door stands open with a clear view of her neatly made bed and deserted room. She’s been here because she left her bed unmade this morning when she ran out.
Standing in her doorway, I hear the front door open, keys jangle.
My heart pounds as if I’ve been caught doing something wrong and I dash into my room and silently push the door almost closed. Then immediately curse myself for acting like a pubescent kid.
What is this girl doing to me?
I reach for a book on the shelf and settle on my bed to distract myself from the sounds the girl I can’t stop thinking about is making downstairs. She knows I’m here. My Jeep is in the driveway. Where has she been? I hear rustling in the kitchen, cabinets opening and closing, the sounds of pots and pans. Is she cooking? I shake my head to stop my swirling thoughts and try to read the book in my hands,Wuthering Heights. Something tells me the book is more for décor than reading. I’m not what you’d call bookish. I’m merely trying to distract myself. One paragraph in, I decide to google the gist of the book and read that instead.
The smell of food wafting up the stairs causes my stomach to growl. That answers the question of what she’s doing down there. I wrestle with whether to go down and offer to help or wait for her to finish what she’s doing and then go down and feed myself.
As if she can read my thoughts, she lightly taps on the door I didn’t completely close just before she peeks her head in. “I cooked. You hungry? I made plenty, but I can’t guarantee it’s on the approved healthy list.”
“I’m starved. Thanks, Ev. I’ll be right down.”
She nods and disappears as quickly as she popped in.
I’m almost giddy as I descend the stairs. Relieved she’s not acting mad at me anymore. She’s got what looks like a pasta dish ready on the bar and two place settings, along with salad and garlic bread. Walkinginto the kitchen, the scene gives fifties sitcom energy. I subconsciously rub the tattoo on my chest as I lean on the doorframe and take it in.
“Smells amazing in here. Thanks for including me. Need any help with anything?”
“Nope, it’s ready. I’m sure the bread isn’t on your approved food list, but it’s delicious and worth the cheat.”
“It looks delicious. Thank you, Ever.” I take a seat at the bar.
At the mention of her name, she looks up from filling two glasses with water, smiles and nods as she brings the glasses over and sits across from me on the kitchen side of the bar. She’s already moved one of the three stools over to the opposite side.
Was that so she didn’t have to sit next to me? I like this better anyway. I can see her face.
As she sets a glass down in front of me, she announces, “This is my go-to comfort meal, and I’ve been craving it. Hope you like it.”
The pasta with cream sauce is not a “health food” but it melted in my mouth. The meal itself wasn’t as unhealthy as she claimed, like most comfort meals. She combined the pasta with grilled chicken and broccoli. The green salad she dressed with olive oil, vinegar and spices. I was impressed. My resolve to stay away from her disintegrated with every bite. Not because of the food, although I love it. As we eat, she tells me how she’s been making this dish since her dad died. The only real meal she knows how to cook, she says. After all the relatives left and the delivered casseroles went away, it was the first meal they shared as a family of three. They—her mom, sister and her—made it together. It was the first time she felt happy after his passing. She said it became her favorite meal after that.
The fact that she made it to share with me has my mind spinning hopeful thoughts and my heart thumping in a way that makes me want to take her upstairs and thank her with more than words. To distract myself from . . . myself, I change the subject. “We’re a week or so away from spring break and our first campers. You ready?” I wink and stuff another bite into my mouth.
“For campers? Yeah. Jumping into Blue Lake at the cliffs? Not so much.” Her expression is playful, but I see the dread behind her eyes.
“You don’t have to jump if you don’t want to,” I assure her.
“A deal’s a deal. Besides, I’m eager to shed my hoolie status.” She winks at me.
My heart flips—like in the movies or the books. I think she’s flirting.Please, let her be flirting.My fingers itch with the need to touch her. Rubbing my hands along my thighs, I clear my throat and lower my gaze to my now empty plate.
“You cooked. I’m on dish duty.” I stand up and begin stacking our dishes.
“Oh, you don’t have to. I cleaned up most of it as I cooked. It’s just a few dishes to throw into the dishwasher. I can manage.” She stands and reaches for the plates in my hand.
“Ever, let me do the damn dishes. As a thank-you for dinner. Okay?” I carry the plates to the sink.
She drops her hands and quietly says, “Sure, okay. I’ll just go take a shower if you don’t need the bathroom.”
