“It’s spaghetti,” Mom defends, scowling at Dad’s profile. “Jarred tomatoes, meat, spice, and noodles, not rocket science.”
“Tell that to your finished product,” Dad grumbles, the smell of burnt sauce starting to permeate the air. Mom gets a whiff of it, and her expression falls. “You were distracting me.”
“Babe, face it, you’ll never be a cook.”
“Only if you face the fact that you’ll never be a mechanic and get that piece of shit out of our garage.”
“It’s coming along,” he defends.
“It’s been eight months,” she chides. “You still haven’t turned the engine over, and I’ll make sure it never does. You’re not riding a fucking motorcycle. That phase of your life is over. Window closed.”
Dad remains mute, his version of ‘we’ll see’ covering his expression, and I can’t help but observe the two of them as my thoughts again drift back to Natalie.
Something shifted between us today from our hostile meeting to the time I dropped her off. Despite us being complete strangers, I felt just as exposed and raw watching her. Even as she tried to defend her integrity to me, I sensed some sort of break inside her beneath the surface and glimpsed it in bits and pieces. Oddly, I found myself wanting to show her the beauty in them and help her try and make sense of it, whatever it may be. One thing I’m growing more suspicious and sure of, is that she’s not here for an article, even if she’s refusing to admit it. The second thing is that she wasn’t expecting to be attracted to me, at all.
That surprise was mutual.
It unexpectedly took me hostage in much the same way it seemed to grab her. I got swept up in it, and it was fucking intense. Every second that ticked by after her confession felt like an invitation I didn’t take.
The weight of my cell phone increases where it rests in my jeans pocket as I debate whether or not to use it. Does the reason she’s here have more to do with our parents’ involvement? If so, why? What could the draw of that possibly be after all this time? It’s definitely not newsworthy at this point.
For the first time in a long time, I examine my parents closely, their body language, their knowing glances and effortless exchange as Dad jerks back in fear while Mom raises a spoon of burnt sauce to his lips.
“Not a fucking chance, baby,” Dad says, his grin fading when he turns to me. Before I know it, they’re both looking at me quizzically, studying me back just as carefully.
Opting out of the inquiry sure to come, I turn abruptly. “I’m going to bed.”
“You okay?” Mom asks, a fair level of concern in her tone as I stride across the living room.
“Yeah, I’m just wiped. Night.”
Before she can pry any further, I take the winding staircase up to my room. An hour later, I lay in my briefs, buds anchored in my ears, cell in hand, staring at the Pulitzer Prize-winning picture of “The Vulture and the Little Girl.” At first sight, I felt the same sting anyone with a conscience who’s viewed it must have felt, terrified this is still a reality for some, fighting daily simply to exist.
Studying it, I recall Natalie’s admission of how the picture changed her and how her researching the story behind it shifted her perception more drastically. Part of her confession had the hairs on my neck standing on end. If she only knew how close she’d gotten to verbalizing my fears, which were fucking eerily similar to her own, the difference being me on the opposite side of the pen.
It’s as if she knew exactly what to say to me. If I still believed her capable, I would have considered her story a ploy to get what she wanted. But no matter how closely I watched her for any sign of manipulation, I couldn’t find it. Instead, I felt the vulnerability rattling from her, which put me at ease. There’s no way she would have that type of insight into me anyway, especially when my own confession came after hers. My music is the most personal thing I have and ever will have, and my parents understand that about me. For some reason—though I shouldn’t have any—I find myself wanting to make her understand it. Or maybe I just want to be in her space again to figure out why she seems so fucking…lost.
Clearing the screen of the picture I can no longer stomach. I pull up my messages and shoot off a text.
Hey, you still up?
I can’t help my grin as dots immediately begin to roll along the screen.
I was just about to text you and let you know I’ll leave your jacket at the reception desk.
Keep it for now. It’s clear you didn’t pack nearly enough clothes.
I program her in, waiting on her response.
Natalie: Hilarious. Eye-roll emoji.
Want to go somewhere with me tomorrow?
More bubbles appear, her response time drawing out in ridiculous length before she gives me a one-word reply.
This woman.
Natalie: Where?
Not telling. Be ready at 6.
Natalie: Okay.
AM.
Natalie: Wtf, that’s like five hours from now!
And this is strictly off the record.
Natalie: Seriously?
Yeah. What’s your room number?
The bubbles start and stop for a full five minutes before the room number appears.
Firestarter
The Prodigy
Natalie
I jerk awake as sharp knocks sound against my hotel door. It’s only when I open my eyes that I realize I’m not at home, and I fell asleep with my laptop open after failing to set an alarm.
“Shit!”
Scrambling, I pull on the Seahawks sweatshirt I bought from the hotel gift shop and crack the door. On the other side stands a handsome, well-dressed man who looks to be somewhere in his early forties, grinning at me with a phone lifted to his ear.
“Good morning, Natalie?”
“Yes,” I say, partially shielding behind the door to hide my slightly revealing pajama bottoms.
“Yeah,” he says with a low chuckle. “She most definitely overslept.”
“I’m sorry,” I blurt loudly, knowing Easton is on the other end of the line. “I can be ready in ten minutes.”
The man shakes his head, his grin widening. “He says too late.”
My chest deflates.
“Yeah, she looks like you just kicked her.”
I narrow my eyes at him as he pulls away from the phone and covers the speaker.
“Hey, I’m Joel,” he whispers.
I frown in confusion. “Hi.”
He elevates his voice for Easton. “He says ten minutes, fifteen if you bring coffees from the lobby and have an apology ready.” He pulls his phone away again and whispers conspiratorially, making him an instant ally. “He’ll wait twenty.”
I project my voice again. “I already apologized and tell his entitled ass, it’ll be twenty.”
Joel grins as Easton speaks on the other end of the line. I find myself leaning in and can’t make out a word. “Uh huh, got it,” Joel says before hanging up and giving me a wink of reassurance. “See you in twenty, Natalie.”
With that, he turns and begins to make his way toward the elevator.
“Wait,” I call out to his retreating back. “How do you take your coffee?”
“Black.”
“Got it,” I say, slamming my hotel door and bracing myself against it for a few seconds before I burst into motion. I use the first four of my twenty minutes in the shower and accidentally wet my hair when I drop my rag.
“SHIT!”
Bringing my soapy hands up to see how much of it got wet, a splatter of soap lands directly in my eyes. Eyes burning, I curse as I jump around in pain before finally immersing my whole head under the spray.
Once I’m out, I manage a quick towel off before I frantically dig through my amenities bag, praying I have enough product to tame the inevitable curls I inherited from my mother. While Dad gave me the color, my mom graced me with the just electrocuted ringlets sure to appear as soon as the air starts to dry it. I spent the rest of my ticking time blow drying and crunching it as my unused flat irons stared back at me in judgment.
Without a single second to spare, I slide on clean panties, jeans, and my Van high-tops before pulling back on my Seahawks hoodie. With less than five minutes to spare, I haul ass to the coffee shop in the lobby and stand in line, shooting off a text to Easton.
How do you like your coffee?
EC: On time.