Nova
“I don’t know what that means,” he says.
I wave a hand in the general direction of his face. “It means that you look like that.” His sour lemon scowl deepens as I reach for the sponge (still in the plastic wrapping), open it, and start scrubbing at the burned butter in the bottom of the pan.
I do this fast and furiously.
Mostly because it takes my mind off the damaged butterfly in the pocket of my hoodie.
Steve really is an asshole.
Teeth marks in the wings. One of the tiny diamonds missing. The metal scuffed up.
My heart convulses. My eyes sting.
Just another thing to chalk up to this shitty ass day.
But the good thing is that all my furious scrubbing means that the pan comes clean relatively easily and, before long, I’m dumping the extra water into the basin of the sink and searching the drawers for a dish towel to dry it.
“What are you doing?” he asks sharply.
“Looking for a towel.”
“Why?” Suspicious now.
“So I can stuff it into your mouth as I murder you,” I say, looking up and hefting the pan like I’m getting ready to swing it at his head. “I’ll have to get a stool to reach your thick skull with this first, though.”
His eyes narrow and he marches out of the room.
I’m heading for the paper towels when he comes back with a huge plastic shopping bag in his hands, reaching in and pulling out a pack of towels still with the plastic hanger secured at the top. “Here,” he says, shoving it at me.
I look at the towel then up at him. “You’re not going to wash it first?”
“It’s a towel. It’s clean.”
“Um,” I say, gently placing the set of plain blue cotton on the counter and reaching for the paper towels. Not ecofriendly, but at least we won’t get cholera. “It’s not clean. It’s been in a factory and then it’s been packed in boxes and shipped to stores and then unpacked and hung on the hooks in said stores while shoppers take it off and look at them before putting them back or little kids with their grubby hands touch them before someone like you buys them—at which point they are then put on a conveyor belt and touched by a cashier and a bagger before they finally end up here.” I shake my head. “So, not clean. Very not clean and you should wash them before you use them.”
He lifts a brow. “You have a problem with my towels when you just stuck your hand into dog throw up?”
I glare, hating that he has a point. “No,” I snap. “I’m just smart and think things through and—” Here I falter because that’s not me at all, because I never really thought about this stuff until my sister gave me the same long spiel enough times for it to stick because she’s the germaphobe and—my heart convulses—she’s not in my life any longer. “And it makes sense to wash stuff like this before you use it.”
His hazel eyes held mine for a long moment. “Do you operate a washing machine better than a stove?”
“What?”
“Do you know how to use a washing machine?”
I huff out a breath. “I think my rant about using clean towels indicates I do.”
“Good.” He reaches toward me, snags the pan from my hands then shoves the towels at me. “You wash”—a nod to the huge bag—“I’ll cook.”
* * *
I don’t realize until I’m halfway through my meal of brown butter pasta with bits of broccoli and peppers and blackened chicken breast and a dash of red pepper—a meal that’s significantly fancier than the Rice-A-Roni and ranch chicken I was going to make.
Not that mine wasn’t going to be tasty.
It’s just…me.
Maybe a little bland, forgettable. It fills a need if necessary, absolutely, but it doesn’t dance along the taste buds, doesn’t make them sing.
It’s halfway through this meal—me plunked onto the counter again, Lake leaning on the opposite side of it, conversation stilted and ringed with insults, though he doesn’t seem to be putting much effort into them, when Steve looks up at me with his big puppy eyes and whines, reminding me—
He hasn’t eaten dinner yet.
And he may have been a bit of a jerk since arriving in Lake’s house, but he’s still my baby boy.
And he’s hungry.
I set my plate to the side, glance down for any stray tacks—because I’ve decided today is the day where I can’t be too careful—then hop down, moving to the other side of the massive island, where my stack of bags sits.
My clothes.
My belongings from the apartment, everything that means something, everything I couldn’t leave behind.
Steve’s bag of blankets and toys.
Steve’s…
I frown and look around, searching as though the tote bag where I had his water and food bowls, his bag of kibble, his treats and the supplements that make his coat shiny is going to magically appear in the empty house.
Then bend and look under the counter, thinking it could be in the little opening where barstools would go—if the man had them.
Which he doesn’t.
Which also means I have a clear view of the space beneath and can see the tote bag isn’t there.
Also, I have to be real, if that food bag was anywhere in the vicinity of Steve’s reach, he would have been headfirst in it, snarfing down the entire package of kibble, eating until he made himself sick.
Instead of sitting like a good boy, whining up at me with big puppy dog eyes.
“What are you doing?” Lake asks.
I straighten, nearly bonking my head again. Thankfully for my smarting scalp, I stop in time, carefully maneuvering out as I say, “Nothing.” Then I’m snagging my plate and separating the chicken from the pasta. I stack a couple pieces of broccoli with it too because Steve’s a chonky boy and can use some veggies. Then I start cutting them up into bite-sized pieces.
I’ll have to get back to my car tomorrow, get him some real food.
Tonight though, I reach down and start giving him my chicken.
And broccoli.
And then some of my pasta because he’s looking up at me with big, soulful eyes and my chonky boy is still hungry and—
“That doesn’t look like nothing,” Lake says, and swear to God, for such a big man, he moves quickly and silently and all ninja-like.
I jump, nearly upending my plate—something Steve would have loved—then look up at Lake guiltily.
Is he going to get pissed at me for feeding his masterpiece to an asshole?
“Don’t you have food for him?” he asks.
“I do,” I snap. “It’s”—and just as quickly, my anger fades, worry invading, taking its place—“I must have left it in the back of the car.”
His brows tug together.
“I’m just giving him mine,” I say quickly, guilt pooling in my belly. “I’m not going to get more and give it to him.”