The plates clanked against each other as I set them in the sink. When I turned around, Price had wandered over to the deteriorating sofa Willow and I refused to part with. Price was looking at me with a pinched face, something I couldn’t recognize settling in the amber of his eyes.
I wasn’t sure what to do. Where to go. We had only agreed on dinner, but now dinner was finished, and I wasn’t sure that I wanted him to go.
When Price left, I was sure to succumb to the man in my head. The ruler of my actions and emotions that demanded bloodshed. It had become so routine now that the act didn’t usually bother me, but tonight, I didn’t have the willpower.
Cutting was the easy part. All I had to do was glide the blade and let it sink as deep as the voice told me to. I went where it led me, sliced as many times as it said I deserved. No thought was necessary, only wallowing in the rightness of the action.
I craved the hurt. Needed the distraction and burn. I’ve seen blogs or posts on the internet from others who claim it stops hurting after a while.
I call bullshit. It hurts no matter how often you do it. How long ithad been a part of your life. I depended on that pain, the searing hot relief that made my hands shake and my vision blur.
The day my body stopped reacting would be the day I knew I’d no longer make it.
Tonight, I knew I could handle the cutting. What I wasn’t prepared for was the aftermath. Stopping the bleeding was no easy feat. The small ones always seemed to bleed the longest, and I’d waste forty minutes of my time along with what seemed like an entire roll of toilet paper. I didn’t want to meticulously cleanse the stain of red from my skin or patch myself up with bandages.
No, tonight I felt a bone-deep exhaustion, and I just couldn’t do it.
“Can you sit with me?” Price’s question saved me from my thoughts.
I zeroed in on him, unaware that I had zoned out until he came back into focus. I know I should refuse. Ask him to head home so I could sleep soundly. But I didn’t. For whatever reason, I walked to the couch and took a seat right beside him.
He turned sideways, mirroring my position like Willow and I always did. Neither of us spoke the first words, refusing to be the one to break the bubble.
Price was looking at me. His eyes shifted from mine to my nose, my hurt cheek, down to my lips. I wasn’t sure if his gaze traveled elsewhere because I was too entranced in doing the same to him.
The air seemed to thicken. I wasn’t sure with what, but it felt heavier. Price and I hadn’t been this close since the second night we saw each other. I got lost in the amber of his eyes, imagining they were the flames of a bonfire, billowing against the steady, Southern wind. There was a mesmerizing golden glow, calling out to me with music I thought only the occupants of Heaven could hear.
Fuck, I needed to say something. Anything to make my heart stop pounding. Something that could distract me from the pull I was feeling toward him.
Clearing my throat, I spoke first. “H-how did you get into cooking?”
It took him a second to respond. “That’s a long story.”
“I’ve got time.”
He shook his head. “I’ll give you an abridged version. Maybe oneday, I’ll tell it all.” He shifted and heaved a deep sigh. Small droplets of rain began to fall above the fire in his eyes, threatening to extinguish it. “I had always loved food and cooking as a kid. I’d watch my mom closely, learning the movements while she made dinner. I didn’t start dedicating much time to it until I was ten. Cooking made my brain stop. I could focus on my hands, the flavors, the ingredients. I messed around with new recipes or my own variations of the sort.”
A smile tugged at his lips, one of his sharp canines poking through. “Everything was okay when I was cooking. I wasn’t lying when I said my head was a mess. It was worse when I was a child. I had… self-destructive tendencies, and when I was in the kitchen, I didn’t feel the need to do them. When Mom and Dad were screaming at each other, pretending I couldn’t hear them, I could tune them out with the sounds.
“The whisk hitting the bowl while I mixed sauces or batter. The thunk of a knife against the cutting board. Sizzling of meat in the pan. It drowned the entire world out, helping me forget that my dad was rotting our family from the inside out. I kept that passion going until I started at The Arch, and the rest is history. I still love cooking, though my passion doesn’t fully align with how we run things at work. When I’m alone, I cook very differently than I would there.”
At some point, I had subconsciously moved closer to Price. Our knees were almost touching now. I didn’t move any further, though. I was fully enraptured in what he was telling me, giving me a glimpse into his life I hadn’t been privy to yet. “What’s your passion now?”
Price looked away. I noticed a slight tint rising on his cheeks. Was that a blush? “I, uh, really love fine cuisine. My dream was always to work in a fine dining restaurant. So, I cook a lot of fancy shit. I love the attention to detail. The enhancement of ingredients is so simple. I mean, there’s also the incredibly challenging dishes. I love the challenge. Being able to fail at something over and over until I get it right, just like some other famous chef, settles something inside of me. There will never be a shortage of recipes or creations, so I’ll never get bored.”
“Why do you work at The Arch and not some fancy place?”
“Oh, you know.” He shrugged, avoiding the question entirely.
I quirked an eyebrow at him but didn’t push. Like he said before, maybe he’d tell me everything one day. I held onto that possibility with a tight grip.
I looked down at our knees, now touching one another. I could feel the warmth radiating from him through my jeans. Price’s hands were clasped tightly in his lap, both manicured and soft-looking. “How do you not have tons of burns and stuff? The other cooks seem to get new ones every day, it feels like. Your hands look fucking pristine.”
Price laughed at my question. “Promise you won’t laugh at me if I tell you?”
I squeezed my lips shut, miming a key locking them together.
He looked away again. Almost like he was trying to hide from me, he shifted on the couch, bringing us closer until the arm I had draped along the back of the couch was touching his. “I don’t wanna sound full of myself, but it’s hard not to with this.”
