Should I ask him to stay for dinner? I had plenty. He was a big guy but I still had enough. I just had to cut up another chicken breast or two. Add a few more veggies.
Could I survive a dinner with him? Would he think candles, music and dinner was a play he had to somehow extricate himself out of without seeming like a dick? Or would he know it was just my way of saying thanks?
Crap!
I listened as “Midnight Rider” became America’s “Ventura Highway” and I did what I had to do.
“Would you like to stay for dinner as an, um…thank you for helping out?” I asked. “I’m making stir fry,” I went on.
“Rain check,” he told the faucet, not even looking at me and I was immensely disappointed. So much so I felt it crushing my chest at the same time I was not as relieved because his answer meant all was right in Mara World.
Then he continued talking, making Mara World rock on its foundations.
“Knock on my door when you’re makin’ your barbeque chicken pizza.”
I blinked at his head.
Then I breathed, “What?”
“Derek tells me it’s the shit.”
I blinked at his head again.
They talked about me?
Why would they do that?
Derek was definitely a firm Nine. LaTanya was too. Nines could be friends with Two Point Fives but male Nines didn’t talk to each other about Two Point Fives. They talked about other Sevens to Tens. If they were younger or were jerks, they made fun of Ones to Threes. But they never talked about Two Point Fives and the really great pizza Two Point Fives could make. Ever.
His head tipped back and his eyes hit mine. “Derek tells me your barbeque chicken pizza is the shit,” he repeated and explained, “as in, really f**kin’ good.”
Derek was right. It was really good. I made my own pizza dough and marinaded the chicken in barbeque sauce all day and everything. It was awesome.
Seeing as I was unable to respond, I didn’t. Mitch looked back at the faucet and carried on rocking my world.
“Or when you’re makin’ your baked beans. Derek says those are even better. But tonight, I gotta take a rain check because I gotta get back to work.”
They talked about my baked beans too? This meant they talked more than a little about me. This was more than a passing comment, “Oh you gotta try Mara’s barbeque chicken pizza. It’s the shit,” or something like that. This meant more than a few sentences. My baked beans were so good they had to be a whole other topic.
Ohmigod!
I remained silent and tried to level my breathing. Mitch kept working. Then he kept talking to the tap.
“You got great taste in music, Mara.”
Oh God. I liked my music. I liked it a lot. I played it a lot and sometimes I played it loud. Damn.
“I’m sorry, do I play it too loudly that it bothers you?” I asked. His neck twisted to the side but his head was still bent so his eyes were on me but he wasn’t exactly facing me yet he was.
“No, at least not so it’s annoying. I can hear it now ‘cause I’m in your house. The Allman Brothers, “Midnight Rider”, America’s, ‘Ventura Highway’, great taste.”
God, of course. I was an idiot.
“Right,” I whispered, “of course.”
Then something happened to his eyes. Something I didn’t get but something that made a whoosh sweep through my belly all the same. It was stronger than normal and it felt a whole lot nicer.
“Better than your taste in baseball teams,” he stated and it hit me that he was teasing me.