12. Your placemine?
12 /
your place or mine?
rafael
I’m packing leftovers in the kitchen, feeling like a complete asshole. I thought I could play it cool. I invited Charlie here, hoping she’d be comfortable and not have to worry about me coming into her space. I made spaghetti, knowing it’s a dish she likes because I’ve seen her eat it before. I didn’t force conversation, knowing she needed time to warm up, and she’s not much of a talker, anyway. I thought it was all going so well.
Fuck. I have never felt more like a total loser in my life than I did when she started to explain the things she struggles with. All the things I had judged her for. All the things I thought made her stuck up and difficult. Meanwhile, she was just doing her best to act in a way that people expected her to. That I expected her to.
Having those sky-blue eyes locked on mine nearly knocked all the air out of my lungs. It stirred a feeling I’m not sure I’ve felt before—like we were tethered by something much more substantial than eye contact.
So, it doesn’t surprise me now when she asks to go home. That was a lot for me, so I’d imagine it feels several times more exhausting for her, which is why I opt to give her a minute alone.
I’ve just finished packing some leftovers for her as she walks into the kitchen with her empty glass. “Thank you for this,” she says as she sets the glass down. “For dinner, I mean.”
“Oh, no sweat. I love to cook, so anytime.” The words slip out easily. Too easily. When I look up at her, she’s biting her bottom lip, looking down at her feet.
“Right. I’m gonna go.” She throws her thumb over her shoulder and then starts to walk toward the front door.
I follow her there, but I notice her eyebrows scrunch up on her face as she eyes me putting my shoes on. “Are you going somewhere?” I smile at her question and nod. “Oh. All right.” Her lips turn into a frown, but as much as I love messing with her, now’s not the time.
“I’m walking you home, red.” My smile remains on my face as her eyebrows scrunch impossibly closer together on her face.
“No. You don’t have to do that.” She shakes her head lightly, still not looking up at me.
“I know. But I’d feel a lot better if I did. It’s dark. You don’t even have to talk to me or walk with me. I just want to make sure you get home okay.” I do my best to keep my voice quiet. I have so much more to learn about this girl, and I already know I’m about to come home to spend several hours on my laptop doing more autism research, maybe even if autism and ADHD present differently in women.
“Well, who’s going to make sure you get home all right?” Ahhh, there she is. I chuckle, and a sense of relief washes over me as her face visibly softens.
“I’m a six foot one, two hundred and fifteen pound former Marine. I think I’ll be all right.” She rolls her eyes, and the world seems to right itself once again. She walks out first, and I follow, pushing the button on my door to lock it as we step out.
We walk in comfortable silence for the first few minutes. I stay beside her, and it doesn’t seem to bother her.
“So, what’s in that?” She points to the paper bag in my hand.
“I packed you some leftovers.”
Her eyes go wide as she eyes the bag and looks up at my face. “You didn’t have to do that. Why did you do that?”
You’d think Charlie wasn’t used to people doing nice things for her, but I know her twin and best friend very well, so I know that’s not true.
“I made enough pasta for like eight people. You’d be doing me a favor if you took this. Seriously.” That seems to appease her. I’ve always known that coming off too strong doesn’t work with her. It’s the whole reason she kind of detests me in the first place.
“Oh. Well, thank you.” We cross a road, and her shoulders seem to relax a bit more. She’s a tough nut to crack, this one. “Should we get together again soon? I’d prefer to have a plan than do anything too last minute.”
I smile, thankful for the information she’s giving me so freely about herself. “Yeah. Let’s do that. I’m a little busy with family stuff this weekend, but I don’t have to be in the office on Monday. Would that work for you?”
She takes a few moments to think and then nods. “Monday is fine. One o’clock, okay?”
“That’s perfect. Your place or mine?” My question throws her off; I can see it immediately in the way she stiffens, though I had no intention for it to come out sounding like that.
“Um, yours.” She stops so abruptly that I have to take a couple of steps back so I’m standing in front of her. I didn’t realize we’d already reached her building. Her eyes go to the bag in my hand, and I carefully pass it to her without our hands touching. There’s relief in her posture when she takes it.
“Sweet. See you Monday, then. Night, Chuck.” I move my hand over my head in a super awkward salute/wave combination. My dorky move amuses her, and she pulls her lips between her teeth as she steps toward her apartment building.
“Night, Machado.”
I speed walk back home, thinking of all the things I’m going to Google while I eat leftover spaghetti.