Fight

Chapter Five- Kitchen

[Kitchen]

*Lyla*

January 19, 2016

"Je souhaite que vous arrêter de me dire quoi faire!" I shout, marching into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water and an apple. I hear Bianca and Sam following after me, keeping a distance in case I decide to use their heads as target practice.

"Don't you go sprouting your Frenchness on us!" Bianca argues back, shooting me the stink eye. "You know we don't know anything aside from "Amour" and "Bonjour"."

"Well, technically, I also know "au revoir"." Sam inputs, leaning against the kitchen counter as he offers us both a gentlemanly smile.

That doesn't safe him the harsh glare from Bianca, however. I can't help but smirk at his success in comic relief.

"No one cares, Samuel Martin Cook." Bianca's tone is domineering, reminding me of a mother disciplining her rowdy and obnoxious child.

Rolling my eyes, I take a bite of my apple and head for the front door.

"Hey! Bonjour! We're not done talking to you!" Bianca calls after me, but I manage to slip out of the house and make a mad dash for my truck.

It is safe to say that Sam and Bianca were not all too ecstatic about my accepting Matthew's invitation. I understand that there is a rivalry going on between the two, Samuel and Matthew, but I was asked to a concert. And who knows when I will be able to attend one again.

Plus, the man I am going with is not hard on the eyes.

No, but he is hard on the soul.

It is debatable that pursuing this friendship with Matthew is beneficial. Only six more days until I begin my treatment for Leukemia and will suffer the side affects of chemotherapy.

But I will go through all the tribulations, just so I will be cancer free, even though there are chances that the cancer will make a reappearance.

I don't want to think about the negative possibilities, however.

I can be cancer free and I am going to look forward to that moment.

Until then, I am going to go to a concert with Matthew Peters, because I wish it.

But for right now, I have to break the news to five more girls and bid them farewell.

~*~

"Honestly, this ice cream is sinful." I mutter around a mouthful of Double Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough.

Matthew sits across from me, eating his own Blizzard, Butterfinger flavored I believe. The expression on his face makes me blush, however I don't refrain from chowing down on my guilty pleasure.

"I wouldn't peg you as an ice cream fanatic. Not with your figure." I instantly look down at my body, pursing my lips.

I am a size eight. I maintain a healthy workout, working around the stables and riding my own horse ensures that. But I indulge quite frequently. Night upon night, I will sit in front of the TV with a bowl of popcorn or chips and a tub of chocolate ice cream.

I'm not even ashamed.

I giggle to myself and shake my head. "People say I have a masculine figure. Comes with the occupation, however." I shrug my shoulders.

After hours upon hours of lifting saddles, shoveling manure and tossing hay bales, I have sustained quite the amount of muscles. They're not necessarily visible unless I flex. But some of the men around the barn make snide comments about how I don't have an equestrian body, but instead one similar to a ranch-hands'.