This Is War, Baby - K Webster Page 0,36

I’m assaulted with memories of Gabe.

My breath is stolen as I recall the terror that immobilized me when the icy vegetable became lodged inside of me. The way I had to push it out. The horror and humiliation at having Gabe between my legs coaxing the stupid thing out. I shudder and attempt to drive away the sickening memory.

“No,” I say with a gasp. “I can’t eat that.” My eyes clench shut and I steady myself with my hands on the back of the chair.

“You don’t like salad?”

Lifting my teary eyes to his, I bite my bottom lip and shake my head no. “I did…I mean, no. It’s not that. Gabe. He did despicable things to me with a cucumber.”

His face blanches and his hands begin shaking wildly. “But that’s food. You can’t…how could…I don’t understand.” Then his eyes widen in horror. “He didn’t.”

I swallow and nod. “He did.”

With an angry huff, he snatches both bowls up and storms past me. Instead of scraping the bowls, he dumps them, bowls, forks and all into the trashcan with a loud clatter. He then heads for the sink where three soap bottles line the back. I watch with brazen fascination as he spends a good five minutes scrubbing his hands with all three soaps. Once he’s dried them, he turns to look at me. His hands blaze red. His eyes devour me for a moment before he clenches his eyes shut.

“I’ll never be able to eat cucumber again.”

I laugh bitterly. “You and me both.”

His eyes reopen. “Um, are there any other foods…did he…”

I interrupt him with a shake of my head. “No. Maybe we could order a pizza or something instead.”

He cringes at my words. “Do you know how disgusting restaurants are? The people who work there, they don’t wash their hands. You can’t trust them to cook the food to the proper temperatures. They use meat!”

I gape at him. “Okay…what do you want to eat?”

He starts to pace. Up toward the sink five paces, equal and measured, and then back toward me at the table. Five more paces. Equal and measured. I itch to reach out and stop him with my hand. However, although I’ve only known him for a few hours, I strongly suspect doing so will send him into a meltdown.

He mumbles rapidly and tugs at his hair. The muscles in his back ripple and tighten with each movement.

“I could make some spaghetti squash with red sauce and—” he stammers but then curses. “Fuck! No, squash is too much like cucumber. No eggplant. No carrots. No pumpkin. No zucchini. Goddammit!”

I chuckle to diffuse his breakdown. “I’ll eat anything you want to offer me. We can eat salad if you want, just no cucumber. The rest are fine. I swear. Please, I haven’t eaten since this morning.”

His face lights up with determination. “Right, sit. I’ll make you something delicious and inoffensive.” His worry seems to dissipate. Who the hell is this guy?

I lean against the counter, ignoring his order for me to sit, and watch this complicated man obsess over our meal. His cuts into the tomatoes are precise and exactly the same width. He makes sure of it before he presses the knife down. The entire time, he mutters under his breath. In the quiet of his home, I can understand what he’s doing. He’s counting. Everything.

Pieces of lettuce.

Slices of tomato.

Slivers of onion.

Handfuls of croutons.

Seconds that pass.

Breaths we take.

I want to chime in and tell him he should have more since he’s practically a giant but I don’t. It’s clear to me that he needs for it to be even. He needs to go through these rituals to feel right in his head.

After he finishes with the salad—cucumber free—he uses a measuring cup to give us both the exact same amount of homemade dressing. He then sets to scrubbing the dishes he used. He spends another ten minutes washing and drying the knife. I’m starving but I don’t dare interrupt a process that he’s seemed to have perfected.

I wonder how long he’s been like this.

And better yet, what made him this way?

I can’t help but ponder over what he would think about the cellar I was dumped into when Gabe stole me. And the way Gabe used me in the woods.

Would he even care?

Would he want to protect me?

I know I can’t stay here with him forever but I can certainly stay long enough to do what needs to be done for Mom. Despite War’s weird habits, it does