this Ryan. There’s a part of me that realizes it’s been a long time since high school. We’ve both grown up. We’ve both lived a lot of life and become completely new people since we were last sticking chewed gum to the bottom of the other’s desk. More than likely, Ryan is not the same teenager who sabotaged all of my dates, toilet-papered my bedroom, and put a lizard in my backpack.
On second thought, I’m not quite ready to let go of my hatred yet.
“Quit snooping around my room,” I say, going to his side and laying the picture frame face down. He doesn’t get to know things about my life.
He turns that soft smile to me. “Do you have two secret children I don’t know about?”
“Yes, they live here and here.” I hold up both of my fists and raise my middle fingers.
He doesn’t look offended like I had hoped. He chuckles and gently folds down my birds until his big hands are covering mine. “I think you need some coffee.”
Why is he doing this? Being so touchy-feely? And doing that strange thing with his face? On most people, it’s called a smile. But on Ryan, I don’t trust that it's something so nice.
I consider telling Ryan I gave coffee up just to spite him, but he’s right. I do need coffee. I need it funneling into my mouth from one of those beer hats at all times.
A grunt is the only snarky reply I can think of until I get a hit of that aforementioned coffee. I jerk my hands out of his hold and head toward the kitchen, wishing I didn’t feel so annoying. I’ve never treated anyone like I treat Ryan. Even when I broke things off with Ben, I never acted snarky and disagreeable.
Back then, I mainly went for the wounded-bird tactic. You know, sad mopey eyes. Lots of tears. Lots of how could you do this to me? And plenty of loaded sighs and dramatic pauses. Come to think of it, I wish I had displayed to Ben a little more of the backbone I show Ryan.
I turn my head and find Ryan opening my fridge.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Making eggs.” He reaches in and pulls out the carton.
“Noooo you are not.” I cross the kitchen and take the eggs from him and put the carton back in the fridge. “I don’t eat breakfast.”
It’s true. I don’t even sneak one of our own donuts until after lunch.
He shakes his head at me and reaches in for the eggs again. “You should. Maybe you’d be less angry all the time.” I grind my teeth into dust as Ryan sets the eggs on the counter and starts looking in all of my cabinets. He pauses with his hands on the handles of the open upper cabinets and looks at me over his large shoulder. “Do you not own a mixing bowl?”
I roll my eyes. “Of course I do.” I push him out of the way with my hip. I won’t let my hands touch him. They have a mind of their own, and I’m afraid that if they feel his hard body, I won’t be able to pull them back off. From then on, I would have to go with him everywhere, my hands plastered to the six-pack that, no doubt, lives under his shirt. “But I’m not a million feet tall like you, so I keep everything down here.” I open a lower cabinet and wave my hands in front of it, making the classic ta-da gesture.
Once the mixing bowl situation is settled, I pour my cup of coffee and hop up onto the counter to watch closely (because I’m keeping a steady eye on the enemy, not because I think he’s sexy) as Ryan goes to work making us breakfast. He takes out an egg, taps it on the counter, and cracks it open with one hand. He does this with five eggs before washing his hands and going back to my fridge to pull out a bell pepper and cheese. My eyes follow him around like the head of the CIA has assigned me to investigate his every move. Like they are suddenly concerned chefs making morning omelets might be starting a nuclear war.
Ryan makes himself at home. He’s forgotten I exist and that this is my kitchen he’s taking over. I sip my coffee while Ryan pulls out a knife I’ve only ever used to wield as a weapon and starts