“Don’t get pregnant,” I interrupt. “I know, I know. You’ve been saying that every time you leave for the past two years. I’m not getting pregnant, Mom. Only terribly high and cracked out.”
She laughs and hugs me. “Good girl. And wasted. Don’t forget to get really wasted.”
“I won’t forget, I promise. And I’m renting a TV for the weekend so I can sit around and eat ice-cream and watch trash on cable.”
She pulls back and glares at me. “Now that’s not funny.”
I laugh and hug her again. “Have fun. I hope you sell lots of herbal thingies and soaps and tinctures and whatever else it is you do at these things.”
“Love you. If you need me, you know you can use Six’s house phone.”
I roll my eyes at the same instructions she gives me every time she leaves. “See ya,” I say. She gets in the car and pulls out of the driveway, leaving me parent-free for the weekend. To most teenagers, this would be the point at which they pull out their phones and post an invite to the most kick-ass party of the year. Not me. Nope. Instead, I go inside and decide to bake cookies, because that’s the most rebellious thing I can come up with.
I love to bake, but I don’t claim to be very good at it. I usually end up with more flour and chocolate on my face and hair than in the actual end product. Tonight’s no exception. I’ve already made a batch of chocolate chip cookies, a batch of brownies and something I’m not sure what it was supposed to be. I’m working on pouring the flour into the mixture for a homemade German chocolate cake when the doorbell rings.
I’m pretty sure I should know what to do in situations like this. Doorbells ring all the time, right? Not mine. I stare at the door, not sure what I’m expecting it to do. When it rings for a second time, I put down the measuring cup and wipe my hair out of my eyes, then walk to the front door. When I open it, I’m not even surprised to see Holder. Okay, I’m surprised. But not really.
“Hey,” I say. I can’t think of anything else to say. Even if I could think of something else to say, I probably wouldn’t be able to say it since I can’t freaking breathe! He’s standing on the top step of my entryway, hands hanging loosely in the pockets of his jeans. His hair still needs a trim, but when he brings his hand up and pushes it out of his eyes, the thought of him trimming that hair is suddenly the worst idea in the world.
“Hi.” He’s smiling awkwardly and he looks nervous and it’s terribly attractive. He’s in a good mood. For now, anyway. Who knows when he’ll get pissed off and feel like arguing again.
“Um,” I say, uneasily. I know the next step is to invite him in, but that’s only if I’m actually wanting him inside my house, and to be honest, the jury is still out on that one.
“You busy?” he asks.
I glance back into the kitchen at the inconceivable mess I’ve made. “Sort of.” It’s not a lie. I’m sort of incredibly busy.
He looks away and nods, then points behind him to his car. “Yeah. I guess I’ll…go.” He takes a step back off the top step.
“No,” I say, much too quickly and a decibel too loudly. It’s an almost desperate no, and I cringe from embarrassment. As much as I don’t know why he’s here or why he even keeps bothering, my curiosity gets the best of me. I step aside and open the door further. “You can come in, but you might be put to work.”
He hesitates, then ascends the step again. He walks inside and I shut the door behind us. Before it can get any more awkward, I walk into the kitchen and pick up the measuring cup and get right back to work like there isn’t some random, temperamental, hot guy standing in my house.
“You prepping for a bake sale?” He makes his way around the bar and eyes the plethora of desserts covering my counter.
“My mom’s out of town for the weekend. She’s anti-sugar, so I kind of go crazy when she’s not here.”
He laughs and picks up a cookie, but looks at me first for permission.
“Help yourself,” I say. “But be warned, just because I like to bake doesn’t mean I’m good at it.” I sift the last of the flour and pour it into the mixing bowl.
“So you get the house to yourself and you spend Friday night baking? Typical teenager,” he says mockingly.
“What can I say?” I shrug. “I’m a rebel.”
He turns around and opens a cabinet, eyeing the contents, then shuts it. He steps to the left and opens another cabinet, then takes out a glass. “Got any milk?” he asks while heading to the refrigerator. I pause from stirring and watch as he pulls the milk out and pours himself a glass like he’s right at home. He takes a drink and turns around to catch me staring at him, then he grins. “You shouldn’t offer cookies without milk, you know. You’re a pretty pathetic hostess.” He grabs another cookie and walks himself and the milk to the bar and takes a seat.
“I try to save my hospitality for invited guests,” I say, turning back to the counter.
“Ouch.”
I turn the mixer on, creating an excuse to not have to talk to him for three minutes on medium to high speed. I try to remember what I look like, without noticeably searching for a reflective surface. I’m pretty sure I’ve got flour everywhere. I know my hair is being held up with a pencil and my sweatpants are being worn for the fourth evening in a row. Unwashed. I try to nonchalantly wipe away any visible traces of flour, but I’m aware it’s a lost cause. Oh well, there’s no way I could look any worse right now than when I was laid out on the couch with gravel embedded into my cheek.
I turn the mixer off and depress the button to free the mixing blades. I bring one to my mouth and lick it, and walk the other one to where he’s seated. “Want one? It’s German chocolate.”
He takes it out of my hand and smiles. “How hospitable of you.”