Page 22 of Challenged By the Ex-Military Lumberjack
"You got a problem with that?"
"No. No problem. I just—" I look at him, this huge man in a flannel shirt with a beard that makes him look like he wrestled bears for fun, and I'm trying to picture him watching cooking tutorials. "I think it's great. I just wouldn't have guessed."
"People don't usually guess right about me."
There's something in his tone. Not bitter, exactly, but resigned. Like he's used to people making assumptions and has stopped trying to correct them.
"What do people usually guess?" I ask.
He flips the bacon with a fork, not looking at me. "That I'm angry. Dangerous. Better left alone."
"Are you?"
"Depends who you ask."
"I'm asking you."
He's quiet for a long moment, the only sound the sizzle of bacon in the pan. Then he says, "I'm not dangerous. Just careful."
"Careful about what?"
"Everything."
I want to push. I want to ask more questions, dig deeper, understand what that means. But something in his posture tells me that's as much as I'm getting right now, and I'm smart enough to recognize a boundary when I see one.
So, instead, I say, "Well, for what it's worth, I don't think you're dangerous."
He glances at me, just for a second. "You don't know me."
"Not yet."
His jaw tightens, and he turns back to the stove.
I finish the peppers and bring them over to the counter beside him. "What now?"
"Put them in this." He hands me a smaller pan. "Medium heat. Little bit of oil."
I do as he says, pouring a small amount of oil into the pan and adding the vegetables. They start to sizzle immediately, and the smell fills the kitchen. Strong and sweet and completely different from the burnt, over-seasoned disaster I created with the lasagna.
Eli's pulling the bacon out now, setting it on a paper towel to drain. Then he's pouring most of the grease out of the skillet, leaving just enough to coat the bottom.
"Stir those," he says, nodding toward my pan. "Don't let them burn."
I stir, watching the peppers and onions start to soften. Eli's pouring the eggs into his skillet now, and I watch as he tilts the pan, letting the eggs spread out evenly.
"You make this look easy," I say.
"It is easy. You just have to pay attention."
"I was paying attention with the lasagna."
"Were you?"
I think about it. Really think about it. "Okay, no. I was distracted. I kept thinking about other things."
"Like what?"
Like my mom. Like the fact that I'm alone now in a way I've never been before. Like the fact that I'm in a new town where I don't know anyone and I'm trying to build a life out of nothing but hope and stubbornness.
