Page 37 of Floored (Frenched 3)
With his coat on.
“You’re leaving?” I asked, thrown off guard.
“Don’t you want me to?”
“No. I mean—I brought leftovers home for you. Did you eat Thanksgiving dinner today?”
“Not really. By the time I got off work and went to see my grandd
ad, he’d already eaten. We just played cards and hung out. I started to drive home to get something to eat but I drove here instead. I don’t even really know why.”
Oh hell. What was I supposed to say to that? Somehow this felt different than last night, when he’d retreated right away into his smart-mouth persona, teasing me and cracking jokes. I decided to keep it light and breezy. “Well, you must have been psychic because I was just picking up my phone to call you and invite you over for leftover turkey dinner. Of course, I was thinking of tomorrow night, but tonight works too.” While I was talking, I went to the cupboard and pulled out two big dinner plates.
“Didn’t you eat already?”
I shrugged, braving a shy smile at him. “I worked up some more appetite.”
He nodded slowly. “Me. Too.”
“Then take your coat off. I’ll fix us plates. Anything you don’t like?”
“Is there cilantro in the stuffing?” he asked, eyeballing the potted herbs on my windowsill, which were so thirsty they’d turned half yellow.
“No.”
He slipped his coat off and hung it over the back of a chair. “Then I’m good.”
“You don’t like cilantro?” I took a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water.
He made a sour face. “No, it tastes like a sneeze.”
“It does not. You’re crazy.” I elbowed him out of the way and watered the herbs. “Here, little fellas. I’m sorry if I accidentally tried to kill you like I’ve killed all your cousins. Please don’t die.”
“You murder plants? Now who’s crazy?” He gave me a swat on the butt, and I laughed, feeling good again. Things were OK. We were OK.
Ten minutes later, we sat in front of my couch, plates on the coffee table, eating Thanksgiving leftovers, drinking wine, and watching Breaking Bad on Netflix. I’d never seen it, but Charlie was a huge fan.
After one episode, I was dying to watch another, even though we’d finished our food. Charlie said he could stay for one more, so we poured a little more wine and moved up to the couch. I was careful to stay on my side, curling up in the corner and covering myself with a blanket when I got chilly rather than moving closer to him.
We ended up watching three entire episodes before Charlie yawned. “Man, I’m exhausted. I better go.”
“Do you have to work tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Early.”
“Yeah, I have to be over at the studio by nine.”
“Oh, that’s right. The dumpster’s coming. How late will you be there?”
“Not sure. However long it takes to get all that crap cleaned up and the new subfloor down. But that’s just plywood, I think. Shouldn’t take long.”
“OK. You’ll call if you need help?”
“I’m sure we’ll be fine.” I picked up the remote and turned everything off, startled at the quiet darkness once the electronics were silenced and the television screen was black.
We sat there a moment, neither of us speaking nor moving. Finally I felt Charlie’s hand on the top of my bare foot, which peeked out from beneath the blanket.
“You’re freezing,” he said, rubbing his hand back and forth.
