Page 28 of The Downside of Love
“Different, but she totally pulls it off.” I toss the phone back on my bed and then look around. Yeah, this might not have been the best idea. My apartment is incredibly small and with another human in it, it feels even smaller, like there isn’t enough room to breathe.
Breaking the silence, Stryder says, “This is kind of awkward.”
I laugh and nod. “Just a little. It shouldn’t be, though. We know each other well enough that we should be able to make this work.”
He scans the space again, taking it all in, the non-walls, the zero space for privacy, the only other room being a bathroom just as tiny as everything else. We are going to be in each other’s business . . . a lot.
“I got us something.” Stryder goes to his duffle bag, the distance achieved in a few strides. From the side pocket, he pulls out a deck of cards and holds it up with a boyish smile on his face. “Wasn’t sure if you know how to play any games. Thought it could keep us busy.”
“Oh, good idea. I don’t have any games or cards, because they’re all at my parents’ house. We can sit at the table.”
Like a gentleman, Stryder pulls out the chair for me and then takes his seat. He sets his glass of Sprite on the floor to give us a little more space on the table. He opens the fresh deck of cards, pulls them out, and hands them to me. “Care to do the honors of the first shuffle?”
“Oh, I would be absolutely delighted,” I answer with a slight British accent. Not sure why, just felt like the thing to do, although from Stryder’s raised eyebrow, he’s probably considering how strange I am.
The cards are stiff to my touch, sharp on the edges, and smell like heaven. I always like the smell of a fresh deck of cards. Brings me back to my childhood when my dad and I used to play when Bryan was tucked away in his room. My dad spent a lot of one-on-one time with Bryan, so when I had a chance to get him alone, we always played cards.
I make the first shuffle, forming a bridge with my hands, letting the cards crisply slide down on top of each other. “What do you want to play?”
He leans back in his chair, legs spread wide, casual and comfortable. “There is the obvious War or Kings in the Corner. But what about a little bit of California Speed?”
I smile inwardly. I am amazing at this game. And I don’t mean amazing, like I was “amazing” when I bowled with Colby. I mean I am REALLY amazing. I am so quick on the trigger, Stryder is going to have his work cut out for him if he wants to win a game.
“Love that game.”
He must notice the giddiness I’m trying to tamp down because he says, “Uh oh, am I about to be shown up?”
I shuffle some more. “You very well might be.”
“Then bring it on.” Leaning forward now, he cracks his knuckles and for the first time in a long time, I see the Stryder I first met. Fun, outgoing, ready for a good time. It almost seems like some life has been breathed back into him.
I glance at the clock on the oven. Twelve minutes left. We have some time. “We can get a couple of games in before dinner will be ready.” I begin dealing the cards. “Get ready to loooooose.” I drag the word out like a child, giving him my best version of trash talk.
It doesn’t faze him. Instead, he smirks and gathers his cards, ready for what’s to come.
* * *
“My card got there first.”
“Bullshit,” Stryder says, leaning forward, hand pressed down on the card he claims to have dropped first, despite mine being under it.
“I think it’s obvious since my card is underneath yours.” I hate to be that person, but come on, it’s plain as day my card got there first.
“It’s because you slipped it under mine once I put mine down.”
Okay, that makes me laugh. “You’re insane. I couldn’t have possibly done that. Just admit it, I beat you . . . again.”
It’s true, Stryder has yet to win a game, even after “replenishing” himself because he was “feeling weak.” Dinner did nothing to help him, and he still couldn’t beat my quick draw.
“You made me slow with that mac and cheese.”
I gather the cards off the table and set them all in the correct direction. “Sorry to say, Stryder, but you were slow before you consumed all that mac and cheese.”
And he consumed a lot. I wasn’t expecting that. When I make a dish of mac and cheese, it can last me up to six days. I’ll be lucky if I get two out of this batch. Where does he store it all?
He pats his stomach. “It was good. I couldn’t stop myself. Thank you again by the way.”
“Of course. Maybe tomorrow night you can cook us something.”
