“You cook for yourself?”
He motions a little. “Eventually I started adding Parm. And frozen meatballs. Fuck, I ate that every night for a while.”
“You should make it for me sometime.”
“Sure.” He moves closer to me. “But don’t expect gourmet.”
“Are you kidding? With the Parmesan cheese on top?”
He nods yeah.
“That is gourmet.”
“I make garlic bread too.”
“Yeah?”
“In the toaster oven.”
“Fancy.” It almost is. It’s so Holden, actually. Taking something that could be an ordeal and making it small and easy.
Or maybe it is easy to make garlic bread.
Maybe I’m blinded by… everything.
“As fancy as I get.” He reaches for a container of olive oil. Hands it to me. Nods go for it.
I warm the oil on the stove.
He pulls out a cutting board. Slices cheese and tomato. Lays the former over bread. “What do I do with these?” He taps the sliced tomato.
My laugh breaks up the tension in my chest. This can be easy. No, it is easy. I place the slices on top of the bread. “Voila.”
“That’s it?”
I nod. “That’s it.”
“I don’t know.” He shakes his head with exaggerated disbelief. “A vegetable on a cheese sandwich?”
“It’s a fruit.”
“In that case—” He places the other slice of bread over the first sandwich. Then the second.
I laugh as I bring them to the pan.
Shit, that really sizzles. I jump back.
Holden wraps his arms around me. He brings his lips to my neck. Kisses me softly. Then harder.
“We, uh…”
“Yeah.” He pulls back. Makes a show of holding up his hands. “Stop distracting me.”
“I’m distracting you?”
“Yeah. All this talk about sandwiches. You know guys are obsessed with hot chicks making them sandwiches.”
“Are they?”
He nods of course, completely full of it. “It’s a full-on fetish. A guy—”
“Laying back on a La-Z-Boy, waiting for a naked chick to bring him a hunk of meat and bread, drop to her knees, blow him while he’s chowing down.”
“Fuck, girl.” He makes a show of fanning himself. “You’re making me hard.”
“I am not.”
“Nothing hotter than—”
“Patriarchal fantasies.”
“Wow, slow down with the SAT words.”
I arch a brow. “You know what I mean.”
“Maybe.” He shrugs. Holds his poker face. “I mean, it would say something, if I thought the stereotypical sexist request from a man to a woman—a joke that was old ten years ago—was actually hot.”
“It would.”
“Not anything good.”
“No, but you’d get away with it. Because of this.” I run my fingers over his chest. His t-shirt is in the way, but it still feels good, touching him.
“Same for you.” The back of his hand brushes my chest. It’s high enough it’s decent.
Which is terrible. “I always thought… I mean, I don’t think about it a lot anymore. But I used to think they were too small.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “Fuck no.”
“They are—”
“Perfect. And I won’t let you say another word about them.”
“But they’re smaller. I mean, it’s not a bad thing. Just a thing.”
“Don’t like where this is going.”
“I just, I uh…” Fuck, that’s a long conversation. But maybe I can… I want to. I really do.
The smell of burning bread interrupts me.
“Shit.” I turn to the pan. Grab a spatula. Flip the grilled cheese as fast as possible.
It’s not too bad. A little charred on the edges, but otherwise toasted.
I focus on cooking for long enough to melt the cheese, cook the tomato, toast the other side of the bread.
Holden gets out plates.
I scoop the sandwiches onto them.
He holds the plates up like he’s a waiter at a fancy restaurant. He motions after you. Follows me to the dining table.
We sit. Hold up our sandwiches to toast.
He laughs as he brings the grilled cheese to his lips. “Here’s the test.”
“If it’s edible?”
“Was gonna say good. Can’t believe your standards are lower than mine.”
My lips curl into a smile. “I’m not much of a cook.”
He shrugs we’ll see. His eyelids flutter closed. He chews. Swallows. Lets out a low groan. “Fucking delicious.”
“Yeah?”
He motions try it. “I hate to say that the tomato works, but—” He takes another bite. Lets out another groan.
Maybe he’s showing off. Or trying to drive me insane. He’s probably trying to drive me insane.
Even so—
I take a small bite.
Toasted bread, melty cheese, soft, juicy tomato. Rich and creamy. Not too dry.
Just good.
No other baggage.
No other… anything.
I chew. Swallow.
He looks to my barely touched sandwich. “You don’t like it?”
“No, I do.” I really do.
“You’re not—”
“That’s not it.”
“What?” he asks with his mouthful. “What’s up?”
“I…” I can’t say it here. Now. No, I have to. I need him to know.
Even though my heart is thudding against my chest.
It’s pounding so loudly it’s drowning my other thoughts.
I just—
Here goes nothing. “I had an eating disorder. Maybe had is too strong a word. I’m not sure it will ever be completely in the past. I was… last summer. When I disappeared. I wasn’t visiting my mom. I was in inpatient treatment. I—”