I glanced down at the name flashing on my ringing phone.
Asher.
My stomach did a somersault. I downed the remainder of wine in my glass and stood. Bex gave me a small knowing grin, but didn’t say anything as I put the phone to my ear and walked toward my room.
“Hey,” I greeted quietly, closing the door.
It was early evening, Bex and I had recovered from our hangovers largely thanks to Amy and Gwen taking us out for food. Since we were recovered, Bex declared the only logical thing to do was to go out. I was happy to. Alcohol promised numbness. Distraction. Anything that quelled pain that had stitched itself to my soul was welcome. We’d just started our “pre-drinking” and were getting ready to go somewhere. I didn’t care where. Anywhere that hid me from the big sad that little bit longer.
“Flower,” Asher’s husky greeting sent tingles to my toes much more effectively than my wine had done.
“Hey,” I repeated.
I heard a throaty chuckle at the end of the phone. “Hey,” he murmured.
There was a pause, a long one. It would have been awkward with anyone else, silence was kind of the opposite goal of a phone conversation, but it somehow wasn’t. I waited for the inevitable “how are you going?” that everyone asked the grieving relative. The question everyone knew the answer to, but the safe, expected social interaction.
“What’s your favorite food?” Asher surprised me by asking.
I blinked. “What?”
“Your favorite food. See, I was sitting here thinking of you, and realizing I don’t know much about you. Only how I feel about you. I want to know more. I want to know everything, flower,” he explained roughly.
My stomach dropped again as I digested his words. He didn’t say anything else as I was silent a moment. A long moment. He wanted to know me? Everything about me? I wanted to ask him why, why he seemed so interested in me when I was the most uninteresting person on the planet. I didn’t.
“Steak,” I said finally. Nothing else, no beautiful articulate reasoning that mirrored his own. I didn’t do well with articulate in most situations.
There was a small pause. “Steak?” Asher repeated in disbelief. “The tiny waifish girl who looks like she eats salads for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, loves steak?”
I smiled slightly, relaxing onto my bed. “Yeah. I love it. It was the only rebellious thing I’ve ever done in my mom’s eyes. She was a vegetarian. My meat eating tendencies were her secret shame,” I joked. Then I realized I was talking about her in past tense. My gaze flickered to the painting on my wall. The pain returned. It was never gone, I guessed.
Asher didn’t let me focus on it. “Well, I’ll have to take you out for a giant steak for our first date,” he proclaimed.
“First date?” I repeated.
“Yeah,” Asher confirmed. “See, we haven’t had one of those, and I’m mighty keen to take you out. Show you off. When you’re ready,” he added.
I was silent for a long time. Again, he didn’t press. “What if I don’t know when I’ll be ready?” I asked quietly.
Asher didn’t pause. “Then I’ll wait,” he replied firmly, seeming unperturbed. “As long as you’ll consent to me talking to you, calling you. Need to hear that beautiful voice at the very least. I wouldn’t object to dirty pictures either,” he teased.
I surprised myself by letting out a small giggle. “I’ll consent,” I said finally. “So, what’s your favorite food?” I asked after another pause. I wanted to know him too, I realized.
Asher didn’t miss a beat. “Tofu,” he replied seriously.
I surprised myself even more by bursting out with laughter.
And just like that, with a simple phone call, Asher seemed to salve some of the burn on my soul.
It felt good. Amazing in fact. I could get used to it. That was the problem.
Bex was painting her nails on the sofa while I made us lunch. I didn’t think that putting frozen fries in the oven constituted “making” anything, but I was impressed I had the energy to do even that considering we hadn’t arrived until the sun rose this morning.
“You know what? I’m not even hungover, or tired,” I told Bex, straightening from the oven.
She didn’t glance up from her task. “It’s ‘cause you’re still a little bit drunk,” she explained. “It’ll hit you in a couple of hours, then you’ll feel like you’ve been hit by a truck,” she declared firmly.
I screwed my nose up. “I’m not keen on that, alcohol is supposed to make you feel good isn’t it?” That was the whole reason I was doing this, being this person. This person who chugged beers at parties and did Jell-O shots. This person I didn’t recognize. I didn’t feel good. But I didn’t feel anything. That was good.