Stella and the Boxer

Chapter 12

“Stella? Wake up, baby.”

I open my eyes and stretch my arm over my head, arching my back and yawning. Charlie chuckles quietly and kisses my forehead. I’m not fully awake yet, but I do smell food, and I’m so hungry.

“You missed class, it’s just past ten. I’m sorry, you didn’t really seem up for going anyway after…”

“Yeah it’s fine, I’m glad I got to sleep a while longer.” It has been quite the night – and quite the morning, too.

“Do you need to get ready for training? I don’t want to make you late,” I begin to sit up in bed and see that Charlie’s made a huge breakfast and brought it to me again.

“Mark isn’t feeling well today, so I’m on my own. I’ll just go for a run and train after I drop you off. No rush.”

“Okay,” I say, and I suddenly remember all of the drama with Charlie’s trainer. “Is Mark alright? By not feeling well do you mean…”

“No, he’s just sick. I don’t think anything too bad came of last night, luckily.” Charlie is sitting on the side of the bed, his feet on the floor. He hands me a plate and scoots back on the bed, closer to me, with his own.

“You don’t have to cook for me every morning, you know,” I say, taking the plate graciously, “Every night, yes, but not every morning.” I smile at him, he grins back and I start eating.

I think about how disgusting I probably look. It certainly didn’t take me long to allow Charlie to see me at my worst. Not only have I already bawled my eyes out in front of him, but I’m currently lying in his bed, stuffing my face, wearing only his shirt. Not to mention, half of my face is swollen and discolored, and what the other half lacks in bruising, I’m quite sure is made up for with tear-smudged mascara and eyeliner. I don’t even want to think about what my hair probably looks like…

“Who taught you to cook so well?” I attempt to distract my mental rant against my own state of appearance.

“My aunt and uncle, they are both very good cooks.”

“That’s what I thought. Do you by any chance know how to bake pies?”

“I do. I won a pie baking contest, with the help of my aunt, in fourth grade, actually.”

Charlie says it proudly. I bite my bottom lip to keep from giggling at how cute he sounds.

“Why do you ask?”

I have just taken a bite and I chew it wholly and swallow before responding, “My mother is determined to bake a good pie. I feel guilty for leaving my dad alone with the obligation of… enjoying her attempts. I would feel better if I brought you home sometime and you taught her to bake one.”

He smiles, and then it disappears, and then he tries to smile again. I swear I could hear him thinking:

She wants to take me home to meet her parents.

How ironic that they wouldn’t let me step foot in their house if they saw her face right now.

I promised though. I promised her that I wouldn’t say or think these things anymore, because we both want to be together, and that’s enough… for now.

We both eat very quickly and soon, I start to get up with my plate, gesturing to Charlie that I’ll take his as well. He instead takes my plate from me and gathers the glasses and tells me to stay.

“I should at least help you clean the kitchen,” I say in protest.

“I already cleaned up. I just need to put these in the dishwasher and I’ll be right back.”