Thinking Of Her
Havoc
That irritating woman invaded my dreams last night, probably because I went to bed mad at her, which makes me furious. Who does she think she is, judging my parenting skills?
“Those eggs look whipped instead of scrambled.” Creed walks past me to grab a cup of coffee.
They are a bit frothy. “I thought I’d make you an omelet today.” More like I’m going to find a way to put vegetables in Creed’s food just to show this woman that I’m a good parent.
This is stupid. She doesn’t see the inside of my home.
A single woman has no right to judge a parent.
My son is well fed, cared for, loved, and protected while being taught how to be an independent member of society and all that important stuff.
Just because I didn’t make him some fancy-sounding fish dish with steamed vegetables at exactly five doesn’t mean I’m a bad parent.
“Um. Maybe I should make breakfast this morning.” Creed walks over and takes the smoking frying pan off the stovetop. “Is everything okay? Did something happen to those women?”
Other than years of traumatic sexual abuse and captivity? “No. Maddox and his men are taking care of them.” I can’t believe they brought down an entire ring in one night without a single loss.
“I can’t wait until I’m eighteen and become a prospect.”
“Prospects get all the grunt work.” I walk over to a stool and let Creed take over breakfast. My mind needs a moment—or a week not to focus on the hot neighbor.
“Eh…I’m not afraid of hard work.” He walks over to the fridge and grabs an onion and pepper from the crisper drawer, as well as some cheese, milk, and butter.
“What exactly are you making?”
“I thought about making quiche, but then I realized we don’t have a pre-made crust, and I don’t know how to make a crust, so I just thought I’d make the inside of a quiche. But I think it needs cream. We don’t have cream.”
Quiche? Why is Creed talking about quiche? When has he ever had quiche? That sounds like some fancy food the hot neighbor would make. The hot neighbor who was complaining about me feeding my son. “Creed, when did you have quiche?”
The boy freezes. “Have you ever had quiche? It’s amazing.”
“Yes, I’ve had quiche. It’s just an egg pie. But I’ve never made quiche, nor have any of the women at the club. So, where did you taste quiche?”
“Um…were you able to find out about that job?”
“Creed, who made you quiche?” I stand up, already knowing the answer before he utters a single word. “How dare she?”
“Dad, it wasn’t like that.”
Except it was. It was exactly like that.
How dare she?
How dare that woman feed my son?
How dare she make him that fancy food, like the food I serve him isn’t good enough?
Quiche…she thinks she’s so amazing because she made my kid quiche.
I smash my fist into her front door over and over again.
She pulls it open in the same robe as last night. Only today her hair is mussed like she just got out of bed.
Did I wake her up?
Probably. Oh well.
“Has no one ever shown you how to use a doorbell? It’s a simple piece of electronics used to politely inform a person of your arrival.
Only a rude neanderthal pounds on a person’s door, shaking their entire home to express their displeasure.
” She looks me up and down, probably finding my flannels and tee decidedly awful.
“I expect nothing less from someone like you. What exactly are you upset about today? Did you find the weather too chilly and feel the need to complain to me about it?”
Don’t smile.
Don’t laugh.
And whatever you do, don’t look back up at that mass of wild hair and think about shoving your hands into it and finding out if it’s as soft as the silk she’s wearing.
What is wrong with me?
“Oh, I know. You burnt your tongue on your coffee this morning and came over to tell me how it’s my fault that the coffee is too hot. That must be it, because you haven’t said anything yet, but you’re staring at me like you’re ready to spit nails.”
I laugh. A full-blown, from the belly, laugh.
My hot neighbor has absolutely zero survival instincts, as she turns and walks back into the house without bothering to shut the door behind her. Either she expects me to close the door or to follow her. I’m not sure which, but I know I should close the door.
Instead, I follow her inside, shocked at what I find. I would have been less shocked to find dead bodies. It’s a fairyland. This stuck-up woman lives in a fairyland.
My brain can’t process what it sees, yet it’s real. There’s no way I’m hallucinating. The two things just don’t go together.
The sound of a fancy coffeepot draws me farther in.
She doesn’t turn around as I step into her large kitchen. The stove alone probably cost as much as my first few cars combined. Her sugar daddy has money.
“I need coffee before dealing with any more of your nonsense. Do you want a cup?”
Did she just offer me a cup? “Are you crazy, woman?”
“Obviously, I haven’t set Rothswyler on you yet.”
That must be her sugar daddy.
“So, do you want a cup?” She doesn’t turn around.
Which leaves me free to watch her without feeling at all restricted by social niceties, not that they bother me much either way. I catch myself before I say yes. “No.”
“Suit yourself. This machine makes an exceptional cup.”
Her silk and smooth demeanor doesn’t fit with this place. It’s like modern reality set in a dream world. It just doesn’t fit, but then again, nothing about her is right. Everything here wars with the woman I know.
A few moments later, she turns around with a cup in hand.
“You may continue yelling if you must. Though you might want to think about taking an anger management class. All this yelling can hardly be effective when raising a teenage boy. Especially one who is so well-mannered and mature like Creed.” She lifts the cup to her lips while watching me for a reaction.
“You drive me out of my mind, woman.”
“It doesn’t seem like you needed to stop for snacks; it must have been a short ride.”
I blink and try not to laugh. “I feed my kid. He isn’t starving.”
“Okay.”
“That’s it? That’s the only response you’ve got. I yell at you, and you say okay?”
“Creed doesn’t appear to be malnourished. But what you’re feeding him is questionable at best. Consulting with a nutritionist wouldn’t be a bad idea. He’s a growing boy.”
“Do you know how prissy you sound right now?”
“Good nutrition is a vital part of a healthy lifestyle.”
“Are you telling me that all your meals are planned by a nutritionist?” Because no one is that nutty.
“Yes. She even makes up a grocery list for me and has all the food delivered. It’s efficient.”
I blink. “That sounds…boring.”
“The meals are quite good.”
Does this woman even know what a good meal tastes like? “Did you feed my son quiche?”
“Yes.”
“Woman.”
“He had a toaster pastry. That isn’t enough for a growing boy.”
“That was his after-breakfast snack. The boy eats like it’s a sport he’s training for. Stop feeding my son.”
“No.”
Excuse me? “I told you not to feed my son. I’m his parent. What I say goes.”
“You aren’t my parent. Which means you have no right to tell me what to do.
I will cook for whomever I want. I will talk to whomever I want.
And I will do what I want when I want. If you don’t want your son eating my food, tell him to stop coming to take it.
I don’t force-feed the child. All I do is simply offer him a hot meal.
That’s it. I also smile and wave to him and, upon occasion, make polite conversation.
Something you don’t seem to understand.”
“I asked you not to feed my son.”
“No, you told me. Had you spoken politely to me and asked me to refrain from doing something, I might have considered it. But you didn’t, so this is where we are.”
She told me no. The hot neighbor told me no.
“If there isn’t anything else you wish to rant about, you may go. I’m making Creed an eggs Benedict sandwich on a fresh biscuit this morning. And I need to make sure the hollandaise sets properly.”
“You’re insane.”
She shrugs. “I’ve been called worse.”
“You’re really making the kid eggs Benedict. Because he’s currently having some fake quiche at home since he liked yours so much.”
“That’s so sweet. There’s a trick to making the dough. I’ll have to tell him about it so that his pastry comes out light and flaky every time.”
“Woman, don’t you hear me? Creed is probably eating breakfast as we speak. You don’t need to cook for him.”
She shrugs.
It’s like talking to a wall. A beautifully sexy wall, but still an infuriating wall. I turn and stalk out the door and back into my house as Creed slides a pan into the oven.
“So how did that go?”
“She’s making you eggs Benedict for breakfast.”
“Cool. I wonder if it’s better than quiche?”
“A thousand times if her hollandaise doesn’t break.” Why did I just say that? That woman is going to drive me out of my mind.
“Want me to see if she’ll make you one?”
“No.” Just no. “I’m going to go take a shower.” And pretend this morning never happened.