Page 73 of Cookout Carnage
Sherilyn: Okay?
Tris: No worries.
She put her phone down, picked up a cleaver, and whacked off the first rabbit’s head.
Half an hour later, Sherilyn was running through the streets of Midway, her purse slung over her shoulder and bouncing against her back. She’d torn off her scarf, thrown on a T-shirt and washed her hands, but there was no time for finesse. She figured it was better she turned up scruffy than spend the time showering only to find Tristan had met the locals and found out who she really was. He was renting a small house, just a few streets away from her family home, from a young couple new to the area and currently out of town, so she knew he couldn’t have spoken to anyone yet.
She stopped, ducked behind a buttonbush in the next-door yard and tried to catch her breath. Her heart was hammering so loudly she could hardly think. All she knew was that she was finally going to meet the man she had fallen in love with, and she looked a total mess. Her hair was dishevelled, every part of her skin sweating. She wore no make-up, and her clothes were the polar opposite from what Tristan had always seen. She fought her emotion down. She’d wanted the first time they met to be perfect, and now she wanted to weep. Would he be horrified? Would he turn on his heels and leave? Well, if he did, at least she’d know. She could hide her family, but she couldn’t hide herself. She tucked her T-shirt back into her shorts, briefly touched the pendant he’d given her and strode the rest of the way. She hammered on the front door as if about to confront a neighbour for their dog crapping on the wrong lawn.
It opened almost immediately, and there he was. In three dimensions, without two computer screens and thousands of miles of ocean between them. Mr. Tristan Fawcett-Underwood. She stared. He was taller and more handsome than she could comprehend, in a white button-down under a vest with the sleeves rolled up. His short brown hair was a little messier than she was used to, and his blue eyes were shining behind his glasses. Emotion flooded through her. If she was in deep before, now she was drowning.
He smiled. ‘Hey, Hot Sauce,’ he said softly.
She burst into tears.
‘Oh my god! Sherilyn, what’s wrong?’
She tried to speak but was so overwhelmed she couldn’t form words. He moved to comfort her, then stalled, as if he wasn’t sure what to do.
‘Shit. Am I that bad?’ Now his hand was in his hair.
She shook her head violently; her tears flying like water from a sprinkler. ‘No! I, I—’
‘Are you hungry? Is your blood sugar low? Hang on.’ He disappeared back into the house.
Sherilyn scrabbled in her purse for a tissue, utterly mortified.
Tristan reappeared, holding toilet paper in one hand and a red packet in the other.
‘Okay, bog roll – I mean bathroom tissue – for your nose, and Monster Munch for your hunger.’
He was holding the packet whilst attempting to unpick the end of the toilet paper. He freed the end, but it slipped out of his grip and rolled off down the drive and into the road, unfurling as it went.
‘Fuck’s sake!’ He thrust his end of the paper at her and ran off, returning with armfuls of white tissue paper and a red face. Sherilyn started to giggle. He looked relieved and grinned ruefully back at her. ‘I’m trying to create a good impression but all I’ve done is make you cry and litter the neighbourhood.’
‘You haven’t made me cry,’ she replied.
He looked sceptical.
‘I just can’t believe you’re here.’
‘I’m going to pretend this display of emotion is entirely due to a lack of electrolytes and sugars,’ he replied. ‘So to remedy the situation, I have for you,’ he lifted the red packet to his face and peered at it over his glasses, ‘maize, rapeseed oil, lactose, hydrolyzed soya protein, fructose, monosodium glutamate, disodium 5’ribonucleotide, sugar, onion powder, potassium chloride, salt, citric acid, malic acid, spice, sulphite ammonia caramel, paprika extract, curcumin, and wheat rusk.’
He looked at her and scrunched up his nose. ‘I thought I was being heroic, saving you my last packet of Monster Munch Flamin’ Hot Flavour, but now I’m not so sure.’ He handed her the packet. ‘You can eat them, chuck them, regift them or donate them to a charity shop.’
‘You brought these all the way from England?’
‘I actually bought a twelve pack but was so hungry I may have eaten eleven in the last hour.’ He pulled a face. ‘Sorry about that.’
Sherilyn smiled. ‘I think you might have saved me from a ribonucleotide overdose.’ She opened the packet. ‘Are they really flaming hot?’
He looked worried. ‘I’m afraid after a year and a half of build-up, you may find them a bit disappointing.’
Her cheeks heated. Nothing about Tristan was disappointing. She put one in her mouth and crunched.
He looked expectantly at her.
‘Are these meant to be spicy?’ she asked.
