"So, what's your movie preference?" Trevor inquires as I lounge behind him on his gnarly, old couch.
The room looks slightly more decent than it did last time I was in here. At least most of the garbage has been removed, and the smell is a bit improved. I secretly suspect that was Trevor's doing.
"Suspense, or... chick flick?" I respond as more of a question than an answer.
He turns around from where he's kneeling on the floor looking through DVD's on the shelf to give me an exasperated look.
"What? I like the contrast. I want to be either sitting on the edge of my seat or snuggled up absorbing all the 'gushy feels'." I explain.
"Suspense it is then." He returns to flipping through our options and then pauses. "Unless you want to watch 'Mean Girls'."
I laugh, and he spins around as if unsure why I find this funny.
"Really? You like 'Mean Girls'?" I question.
"There are very few guys that will admit to it, but yes, I fully enjoy that movie. I'm not ashamed," he tells me proudly. He gives me a crooked grin and then turns back. "It's funny."
We finally settle on 'The Diner', since I'd never seen it. Once that's decided, Trevor leaves me to make us a snack. Apparently, a snack to him means dinner to the rest of the world, because when curiosity takes over, I follow him into the kitchen to find him putting a pot of noodles on to boil and scrounging around the cupboards.
"Whatchya makin'?" I ask. I'm finding myself strangely comfortable with him now that we've both come to the mutual agreement to play nice.
"S'getti." His voice sounds strained as he stretches onto his toes to reach the furthest corner of the cabinet. With an "Ah ha!" he pulls out a jar of Prego, spinning around to present his findings as he holds it out for me to see. I give him the deadest expression that I can muster, and his chest visibly deflates. "What?"
"Spaghetti from a jar?"
He seems disappointed by the placid, sterile tone in my response, and then his eyes alight with vigor as a mischievous smile envelopes his face, transforming him from a disheartened soldier to a playful boy.
"Don't you cook?" He squints at me as if daring me to deny it.
"Yes?" I match the questioning inflection of his voice.
A smile forces his cheeks to wrinkle near his glimmering eyes as he puts his hands together in a begging position and bats his lashes repetitively. I'm surprised he actually remembers that fun fact from our first psych project.
"Please?" he finally petitions.
I just watch him as I enjoy this side of his character. He doesn't seem impressed when I don't immediately agree to his plan.
"Don't make me get on my knees," he warns.
"Okay, okay, okay," I say, throwing my hands up in the air in mock irritation before allowing my face to relax into a grin. "Watching you beg is surprisingly unattractive."
He gasps dramatically.
"What supplies ya got?" I ask.
His expression falls into a look of complete bewilderment. "Supplies?"
"Yeah, like food supplies," I clarify as I walk towards the fridge and swing open the door. "Tomatoes, seasonings, paste?"
"Paste?"
Turning around, I quirk an eyebrow at him. "You're a lost cause," I sigh, with disappointment flowing out my now puckered, twisted lips.
After finding absolutely nothing of substantial nutritional value in the fridge, I shut the door and turn to prop myself against the side of it.
"Well," I tell him, "if you want spaghetti, and you want me to make it for you, then we're gonna have to go on a quick jaunt to the store."
His shoulders slump and he groans loudly like a spoiled child before he offers me his alternative great idea. "How 'bout I stay behind, make some popcorn, and clean up a bit, while you go --"
"No," I interrupt.
He frowns at me.
"Huh-uh," I mutter, shaking my head. "I hate. Hate. Grocery shopping. So if I'm going to do this for you, you're coming with me." I smile wickedly at him because I know he has no escape.
Twisting around dramatically, he stalks into his bedroom and emerges seconds later with keys dangling from his fingers.
"Come on, bossy butt," he says, sweeping his arm in front of him in a 'lead the way' gesture.
I smile triumphantly as I march past. Who knew he was such an immature child underneath all that brusque armor?
----
"Onion."
"Check."
"Oregano."
"Check."
"Paste," I say, holding up the small jar and wobbling it so close to his face that he goes cross-eyed. He flings my arm away. "Just making sure you know that I'm not putting hair products in your food," I joke... but seriously, maybe next time.
I scan my mental list of ingredients. "Tomatoes."
"Check," he groans, making a show of his boredom as he flings his body over the side of the cart, feigning exhaustion.
We've literally only been here for six minutes. He gets a gold star for being the most dramatic human on the whole entire flippin', freakin', floppin' GOSH, DARN, PLANET!!!
"I'm just gonna go... Crap!" Trevor bolts straight up, panic glaringly obvious.
"Really?" I groan. "If you have to go so bad, then go. I'm not stopping you. The bathroom's right over there." I point.
"No. I mean crap!" he repeats.
"Uh huh, I got that."
"No. I mean..." he nearly growls at me for not catching on. "I left the noodles cooking on the stove."
"Oh!... Crap!" I shoot equally panicky eyes his way to see him giving me a that's-what-I-said-you-stupid-nincompoop face. "Okay, okay, okay, okay." I don't handle these types of situations very well, obviously. I'm looking around the store frantically as if that's going to help our predicament at all.
"Oh, I know," Trevor barks, and I can already hear the sarcasm dripping off his tongue. "How 'bout we go?"
"You keep being rude to me, and I'm going to poison your spaghetti," I respond, but he doesn't acknowledge me as we're both sprinting our way through the aisle and searching for the shortest checkout. We find one, and then my brain decides to click on. "How 'bout you get the car, and be ready out front so we can just load and go."
He points at me with a nod and then darts off—disappearing through the sliding glass doors.
---
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Porcelain Skin (NOW ON AMAZON KU)
Teen Fiction"When I tell you that he hates me, you'll probably assume it's because he's a jerk...but you'd be wrong. He's not a jerk. I am." --- Several years ago tragedy struck Emma's home, leaving her broken... like a cup with cracks spiraling and sli...
