Dishing Up Love

ChefCurtisRockwell: Ah, see? I don’t just blow my money on stupid shit. I don’t drive the most expensive and flashy car. I don’t buy sneakers that cost a hundred grand a pair. I don’t own gold-plaited toothbrushes and razors. I drive a nice truck that can haul a trailer carrying a barbeque pit. My favorite tennis shoes are Asics Noosas. I use a sonic toothbrush I got from my dentist after the network got my teeth whitened when I started the show, and I use a Mach 3 razor, which I still believe is astronomical for replacement blades.

Me: Ah-HA! I knew your teeth couldn’t naturally be that freaking perfect!

ChefCurtisRockwell: Sugar. It’s called Zoom and it’s available at like… any dentist office.

Me: Noted.

ChefCurtisRockwell: You don’t need it though. Your teeth are gorgeous.

I wrinkle my nose.

Me: I live on coffee, and I’ve toyed around with the idea of that Invisalign thing, but I don’t think I have the discipline for it.

ChefCurtisRockwell: Don’t you dare.

Me: What?

ChefCurtisRockwell: You’re not fucking getting Invisalign.

Me: Ummm… what?

My brow furrows.

ChefCurtisRockwell: If I ever find out you’re trying to close that sexy little gap in your two front teeth, I will personally fly out there, break down your door, find the fucking teeth tray things, and melt them in your new Instant Pot. *red angry face

I know I should feel insolence at his bossiness, but really, I’m turned the hell on at the idea of him being so passionate about my annoying little gap. I always hated it when I was younger, when all my friends went through their awkward braces phase and came out with perfect, straight teeth. But then I didn’t really think much about it as I got older, since no one ever seemed to notice it. I got made fun of for loving nerdy stuff more than I ever did for my gap, so I paid it no mind. That’s why it’s so strange to me for him to specifically point out that he wouldn’t want me to close it. He’d obviously noticed it. Even called it “sexy.” It makes me smirk and sit up a little.

I notice my water has grown cold, so I message him quickly.

Me: Gotta get out of the tub. I’m all pruny. BRB.

I set my phone on the floor outside the clawfoot tub then reach into the tepid water to pull the plug. I step out and wrap myself in a big-ass bath sheet, snatching my phone up off the floor right as it buzzes.

ChefCurtisRockwell: Ugggh… I had momentarily forgotten you were naked. I have a feeling being with you will be a lifetime of constant blue balls. *sobbing emoji

My heart stutters at this. He’s still talking like he had last night, like it’s a done deal, no doubt in his mind about me… about us. I wish I had even part of his confidence. In fact, a lot about him is inspiring. The way he’s been so open with me, answering any and every question I’ve asked him, and without any hesitation, so I believe everything he’s saying is the truth. He doesn’t pause to filter his answers, not since I apologized and told him I wanted to be stronger and not run again.

So I take a deep breath and throw it out there…

Me: Is… there anything you want to ask me?

This time, there is a pause. But when I receive his response, I can’t help but laugh.

ChefCurtisRockwell: Can I get them digits?

Me: LOL! Yes. As a matter of fact, you can.

I type out my number and send it through, and the next thing I receive isn’t a DM in my app, but an actual text message from a phone number not programed into my contacts.

213-555-3808: Sugar, sugar… *music note emoji

I grin stupidly and save his info, sending him a reply.

Me: Ah, honey, honey. *music note emoji

Curtis: That’s much better. *big smile emoji

Curtis: Now, can mine be a two-part question, or is it your turn again?

Me: I’ve asked several. You go ahead.

I dry off quickly, moving toward my dresser to grab a fresh pair of surgery panties and a nightgown, when my hand pauses above the drawer pull.

“They’re full of bad juju anyway. Get. Rid. Of. Them.” Emmy’s voice echoes in my mind, and I bite my lip, narrowing my eyes as I grip the handle and slide the drawer open. There they all are, neatly laid flat in a stack ten-deep. Well, nine, since the pair I wore yesterday is still on the floor somewhere, where Curtis had tossed them.

I blow out a breath through pursed lips, my cheeks billowing, and then I straighten my shoulders, scoop all the surgery panties up, grab my phone off my bed where I’d tossed it, and hurry downstairs. Curtis’s next text comes in, but I momentarily ignore it while I turn my video camera on.