seven
“You wouldn’t last a fucking day on these streets without daddy’s checkbook in your designer purse.”- Leo
Thursday Morning…
I wake up groggy and disoriented. I shake my head, trying to dislodge the remnants of a dream shrouded in fog and muffled by the morning sunlight. I don't remember my dream, but it felt like a good one. As I look around the empty room, memories of last night come rushing back.
After Callisto’s shower, things were awkward.
We spent the rest of the day and evening circling each other but never interacting.
It was like some strange dance between two people separated by sound proof glass.
The other person can’t hear you, only see you, and you may not even be listening to the same song.
It is choppy and awkward with too much between us but not enough at the same time.
I didn’t know what to say to Callisto. What do I have in common with a spoiled brat?
The few times we’ve spoken, it’s always ended in an argument.
Last night, I was highly attuned to Callisto’s every movement.
My ears would perk with each sigh that was pushed from his lungs and out through his plump lips.
My nostrils would flare every time his scent, that mixed with what remained of my own on the borrowed clothes, would drift over to me.
My eyes would constantly drift to find Callisto even though I had far more interesting things to be focusing on.
When my gaze would inevitably land on him, I would usually find his long, ringed fingers pulling on his full bottom lip as if in thought, and I would have the sudden urge to taste it.
Every accidental brush of skin would have my body igniting with sparks, almost as if I had flicked the wheel of a lighter but didn’t hold down the button to create the flame.
There wasn’t the familiarity of companionship there that comes with time.
It was awkward and unsure, and to me, it felt strangely similar to a first date.
Except it didn’t end with fumbled kisses leading to awkward sex where you hope that your body somehow syncs to theirs and creates something mind-blowing.
It didn’t even end with a chaste kiss on the cheek and an ‘I'll call you tomorrow’. It did end with a cold and lonely bed, which I’ve become accustomed to. I didn’t realize how much I longed for domesticity until last night when I was living with a stranger.
I am pulled from my thoughts by the aroma of something unfamiliar, and my curiosity is piqued.
I don’t think Daron or Fletcher would have let themselves in, given the current situation, and they are the only two people who cook in my kitchen.
I will cook occasionally, but I don’t make anything extravagant or even creative. I mostly eat fast food or snacks.
I get out of my bed and throw on the same clothes I wore last night. I slowly make my way downstairs, my stomach rumbling at the smell of something sweet as I get closer. My eyebrows reach my hairline when I make my way into the kitchen, the soles of my feet barely making a sound on the tiled floor.
I’m shocked to find Callisto cooking, an apron tied around his tapered waist.
He looks soft, his thick hair curling around his face as he hums a tune that I’ve never heard.
The deep baritone of his voice mixes with the sweet scent of whatever he’s cooking then wraps around my body like a warm blanket.
“I didn’t know you cooked,” I finally speak, letting my curiosity lace through my words.
I try to make it sound more like a statement, so Callisto won’t think I’m mocking him for cooking.
I have to admit that I’m surprised. I would have thought someone like him would have all his meals cooked for him, but, for some reason, I don't want that accusation to be left in the air.
“Oh, um… Yeah. I love to, actually. I don’t do it often enough. You didn’t have much to work with, but I hope French toast is okay. I would have made avocado on toast, but you didn’t have the key ingredient.”
Callisto’s slim shoulders shrug, then he turns back to the pan, expertly flipping the French toast.
I barely hear the words, too wrapped up in the sound of his morning voice.
It’s deep and gravely, like the sound of feet walking over pebbles during the deep recesses of the morning when nobody’s awake.
“Of course you’d like fucking avocado on toast. Avocados are disgusting.” I smirk and chuckle. “I won’t let them near my house. Evan tried to bring one in one day, and I threw it at him.” Amusement flares as Callisto’s lip twitches at the corner, fighting back a laugh.
I go over to the blue Keurig sitting on the counter, asking Callisto if he wants a cup with a look.
He nods, and I start making the coffee. It’s the least I can do.
“How do you take it? I take mine with just sugar, but I’m sure there is some creamer in the fridge since Daron makes coffee here all the time.”
“Um, sugar with a little bit of cream is fine. Black coffee, though. That’s so gross. How do you do it?”
Callisto asks, and it’s his turn to give me a look of disgust, his pink tongue coming out for a split second as his nose scrunches up.
It’s infuriating how easily he fits into my kitchen.
I track the movement of his tongue, a dark heavy weight settling in my gut.
It quickly disappears when I realize I can’t answer the question without going deep into my past, and the fact of the matter is, I’m not sure I want him to know.
“Something I’ve gotten used to,” is all I say. Callisto must sense my dismissive tone because he doesn’t press, just glances at me out of the corner of his eye as we work alongside each other.
I startle at how domestic it feels, how simple tasks with a stranger can feel so familiar.
It’s a stark contrast to the night before, a dance between two strangers.
Existing together in the world together, but not interacting, like how we have been living all along.
Callisto and I have been existing in the same city, maybe we have even been in the same place at the same time, but our paths have never crossed.
We were still acting that way last night, but something shifted over the last seven hours.
“It’s ready.”
My attention snaps up to the plates Callisto has sat on the counter, a steaming stack of French toast sitting atop.
I can’t help but smile, Callisto’s face mirroring mine.
He takes both plates, and I grab the coffee as we make our way to the table.
I don't eat at it very often, only if there is a meeting or something going on at the house.
Typically, my group of friends will eat in the living room, preferring to watch TV while we shovel food into our faces.
“I’m surprised your picky ass eats French toast. Figured it would be too high in calories or trans-fat or something.”
I laugh. I take a seat at the table, across from Callisto then slide him his coffee.
I drizzle some syrup on my food, then hand it to him who does the same, electing to not use as much.
“As long as I work out, I can eat whatever I want. I don’t like filling my body with garbage.”
Callisto shrugs, and I roll my eyes while cutting off a piece of the French toast.
The scent of cinnamon and nutmeg hits my nostrils as I bring a bite up to my lips.
I almost moan when it touches my tongue, an explosion of sweet mixed with spices that tastes like the cooler months that are currently residing outside.
“This is really… um… good. Where did you learn to cook?”
I thought I knew Callisto, well at least he knew his type.
Rich and snobby. Entitled in every single way imaginable but knowing how to cook is throwing me for a loop.
It is blasting my perfectly constructed idea of who I thought Callisto was out of the water.
My head spins. Maybe there’s more to Callisto Santos than I had originally thought, and maybe I want to peel back each layer to see what is revealed beneath the folds.
“My nanny actually....” I cut him off with a laugh, opening my mouth to give a smart ass reply that is on the tip of my tongue.
Callisto continues before I can, “I know what you are going to say. That I’m rich and spoiled for having a nanny, but I did. She was like a mom to me, though. She had been with our family for as long as I could remember. Even though I was super young, she taught me to cook because she loved it.
She taught me a lot.”
Callisto smiles at the memory before his lips droop.
He looks down, poking at his food. What was left unsaid? What about his nanny makes him sad?
“That’s really amazing. I’m glad you have such great memories of her.” The mockery dies on my tongue. I don’t want to break him, not over this. I want to know exactly what made him look that broken.
It’s not his fault his parents hired someone to take care of him because they either didn’t want to or were too busy to do so themselves.
It is actually sort of sad. I don't know why I have the sudden urge to put a hand on Callisto’s back in comfort.
I don't know why I want to ask questions about his nanny, get to know him in any way I can.
I shouldn’t. Callisto isn’t a permanent part of my life.
He will leave as quickly as he came, and I need to remind myself of that.
We spend the rest of the meal in silence.
It’s not the awkward silence that followed us around the night prior.
No. It is more of a companionable silence.
I don't feel the need to fill the air with words or noise as a way to muffle the awkwardness or snuff out the silence.
I very much enjoy the breakfast Callisto had made for us.
It is delicious, far better than Daron or Fletcher’s cooking.
I wouldn't tell them that because then they wouldn’t cook for me again, and they are my only source of home cooked meals.
“I’ll help you clean up,” Callisto offers when I stand, grabbing the plates.
I head to the counter and place the sticky plates in the empty dishwasher.
I grab the pan and turn on the hot water, holding my finger under the tap until it’s warm.
His eyes burn into my back as I wash the pan.
He clears his throat, and my eyes snap up to meet his.
“So, this is a really nice house. It’s not something I was expecting on a criminal’s pay.” Callisto’s eyes widen as if he didn’t mean for his remark to sound so condescending. I wait for him to correct himself, but he doesn’t.