It didn’t occur to Starla until Sunday afternoon as she shopped for groceries that she hadn’t asked Jared for food preferences, but he looked like a meat-and-potatoes man. That physique she’d felt pressed so tantalizingly against her hadn’t been sculpted at any gym. The little she knew about him from hearing Ghost and Macy talk, he rode horses and bulls and owned a ranch and probably baled hay and herded cattle and did all kinds of manly, cowboy-type things she didn’t know shit about as a definite lover of the indoors. If he needed help with his computer or wanted a real challenge on the Xbox or a savory meal, she was his girl. But dealing with an animal bigger than she was? No, thanks.
The thought of watching him do all those outdoor things, though—preferably shirtless and sweating with muscles bulging—held definite appeal.
So her mission in meal planning was to seek the middle ground. Something impressive but something he and two little girls would actually, well, eat. Hopefully none of them had any allergies. She hadn’t thought to get his number so she could ask him these pertinent questions. Since she’d called Janelle from his phone the night he drove her home, she could’ve gotten it from her friend, but oh well. Surely if there was an issue, he would’ve said something.
In the end, she actually settled for meat and potatoes. Pork tenderloin stuffed with lemon and herbs. She would roast the potatoes. Do some fresh, crisp green beans with red pepper. By the time she was done shopping, she was starving with hours left until dinner. By the time she was home putting away the groceries until time to head to Jared’s, she was second-guessing her choices. Too late now. So she whipped up some cookie dough from scratch and put a batch on to bake—surely two little girls would appreciate chocolate chip cookies if nothing else she brought. Maybe the grown man would too. Unless someone was diabetic or something. Shit. She had to stop doing this. Why was she so worried about it, anyway? It was just a nice gesture, not a date or anything. She wasn’t seeking a proposal. What the fuck did she care if they ate her food? More for her.
“Holy shit, it smells good in here.”
Not for him, though.
Her roommate’s brother ambled bleary-eyed into the kitchen, shirtless as usual—nowhere near the appealing sight Jared would surely be. It was almost four, and Doug was just now waking up. Jobless, homeless if not for his sister and Starla, his permanent residence was their couch. He didn’t lift one damn finger around the place, didn’t help with rent even when he had a few dollars. It was a source of constant friction between Starla and Julie, whose only whiny reply whenever Starla brought it up was, “He’s my brotherrrr, what am I supposed to dooo?” Starla could suggest a thing or two to do, but this was one place where she tried to keep the peace. She couldn’t have misery at work and home. So she dealt with it and tried as best she could to ignore the slug whose butt was permanently attached to the couch. When confronted with him, though, sometimes she couldn’t hold her tongue.
“Thanks,” she replied vaguely, opening the fridge to grab a Coke—and freezing upon realizing they were all gone. Her Coke that she’d bought last weekend with her money. The empty twelve-pack box sat next to a brand-new, uncracked box of Bud Light. He never had rent money, but he usually had beer money. Or his sister bought it for him. Fuming, Starla yanked the empty Coke box out, closed the door, and turned to see Doug peeking in the oven.
“Oh hell yeah. Those look awesome.”
“And not for you.”
“Why not?” he whined. It was a tone he and his sister had in common.
“They’re for a friend.”
“I can’t have one?”
She waved the box at him before crushing it between her hands. “Did you drink my Coke?”
He straightened and sneered at her. “Your name wasn’t on them.” It was a favorite phrase of his.
“Then your name isn’t on those fucking cookies.”
“Damn. Forget your antibitch pills this morning?”
“Must have. Forget your antifreeloader pills?”
Reference to his mooch status usually shut him up, and this was no exception. He left the kitchen while she fought nausea at the sight of his pale, pimply back and ratty boxers sticking out of his dirty low-slung jeans. Old, faded ink, shaggy unwashed hair, everything about him yuck. And she had to look at him every day. Jesus. Her life.
One day she’d be out of here, but she had no idea when that day would be. Not anytime soon, unfortunately. Her parents often told her there was room at home if she ever wanted to move back and save up for something better, but frankly, she’d rather live in her car. Not that they’d been bad parents, necessarily—she loved them and she guessed they loved her despite her life choices. Strictly religious, they didn’t even own a TV and probably held regular prayer sessions for her soul. Bringing her under their roof would be another opportunity to indoctrinate her. There weren’t enough nopes in the world for her thoughts on that matter.
Doug disappeared into Julie’s bedroom, and Julie emerged frowning a few minutes later. “What’s going on?” she asked. Great. Little Dougie had tattled on her.
“Not a thing.”
“You sure pissed him off.”