I may have been all talked out. As I plated the last crispy chicken wing, Ashton was reaching in a high cabinet for plates. He’d begun setting up the dining room table for us to eat as Mint Condition sang “What Kind of Man Would I Be.” I watched him mutedly go about preparing for his birthday meal like we’d done it so many times before. A bucket of reality doused over me. How did I get here? What was this? This felt too easy, too natural. But it wasn’t. It felt too good and so wrong at the same time. That, it was.
“You okay?” he asked when chancing a look at me.
I was and I wasn’t. That high? It was still there, but temporarily still, giving me a moment to take it all in. This was a personal recipe I’d just made with gusto for this guy who I’d just met three months ago. The one who started out as my bully and was now…my fantasy. A fantasy who didn’t want me the way I did him, and who’d had a girlfriend—that he thought he’d broken up with.
I scratched a sudden itch on my arm, thinking of an answer. “I am.” My face tightened. “You mind if I get out of these clothes? I smell—feel—like a short-order cook.”
I abandoned the bubble. Stupid me was thinking too hard on what felt good to me. Why couldn’t I feel good? No, he didn’t want me that way, but he wanted to be cool. Why couldn’t I accept that and be happy?
He nodded, pushing his hands into his pant pockets. “Take your time. I’ll wait.” Calm, collected, and hella sure of himself. He tossed his chin. “Your bag is right there. The main bathroom should be in the bedroom, just off that way.”
I’d forgotten he’d been with me the whole time I cooked, listening to me do something I’d only done with my girls. Feeling off, I nodded, then turned for my bag. The bedroom portion was huge. It didn’t have a door, but there was a large walk-in closet on the way to the bathroom. I tried not taking in the place too much, not wanting to have him waiting on me long. I rushed through a shower and changed into a large BSU tee and biker shorts. The shower was what I needed to snap out of my weirdness. On my way out, I snatched out my ponytail to loosen the tension in my scalp. I had to stop tripping.
Everything’s cool. This is Ashton…
There were candles on the table. That was the first thing I noticed. Ashton was leaned over the counter in his Blackberry.
“You need these to write on your phone, too?” I teased.
His head whipped my way, eyes widened, and he stood. At first, Ashton seemed spooked, then he cocked his head to the side and squinted. “It’s my birthday, McNabb. I’m worth a candlelit spaghetti dinner. Ain’t I?” I couldn’t help my laugh and rolled my eyes. “C’mon. I’m hungry.”
I was in action, taking the seat near the wall. He brought out the spaghetti sauce and pasta in bowls and the chicken on a platter. They were plain white, but looked fancy. We didn’t have these at home. We served food out of pots and pans or regular plates.
“So…” Ashton started, bringing a bottle of cranberry juice I’d put in the fridge earlier to the table.
“So,” I mocked him. “Do I give a happy birthday toast or something before we rip into this delicious food now, or wait?”
“Rip?” He puffed out a breath. “Who said it’ll be all that?”
My smile was big. “I did. My Margaret, too.”
“I’ll be the judge of you doing Margaret Maureen McNabb’s recipe justice or not.” His tone was crazy serious.
But he’d said her name. He spoke it like she was real to him, too. I missed that lady too much, but Ashton didn’t make me feel weird about it.
“We can save that for later. I’m going to pass out if I don’t grub now.”
And that’s what we did. We took turns drawing from different bowls and the chicken platter. Then we started to chow down. As I sucked the ends of a few pieces of noodles noisily into my mouth, I watched Ashton use a big spoon to wrap his pasta around his fork. He chuckled, eyes on his task.
“What?” I asked with a mouthful.
“You’ve got horrible table manners.” His voice was lazy.
I rolled my eyes. “Those aren’t the only manners of