“Why not?Is there one you’re leaning more towards than another?”I look up from the fridge at her in bewilderment.Tate is the only person I’ve ever met who just blows past the Do Not Disturb sign plastered to my face.
“I don’t really know any of the songs enough to make a decision.”It’s an honest answer, but the way she’s looking at me, her face twisted up like she licked a lemon, I know my dreams of making a sandwich and going back to my room are gone.When I extend to my full height, she nudges me to the side and in two drawer-pulls has pulled the rest of the supplies out to make a sandwich.
“Now you can focus.How do you not know any of the songs?They’re on the list because they’re well-known and well-received.”She walks to the back of the kitchen, squats to open a cabinet and pulls out a wooden cutting board almost the same size as her.She puts it back and grabs the one underneath, slightly smaller, before walking it back to me.She leans one hip against the island, ready to continue her interrogation—I mean friendly questioning—when her face lights up in remembrance.She’s gone again, walking back towards the drawer closest to the dishwasher and returning with a knife.She holds it out between us, pointy side down.
I wonder if she has ever been hunting or fishing?The thought comes unwelcome to my brain.Why would I think that?After the show wraps, I won’t see her again.I accept the cutlery, shaking any thoughts of backwoods and Tate from my mind.She opens the twist on the bread bag, placing two bread slices side by side on the cutting board, but her hand stops midway back in the bag.She looks up at me, and from this close I can make out the barely-there freckles splashed across the bridge of her nose.“One or two sandwiches?”she asks, one eyebrow extending upward.I take a step back.
“How did you know I was making a sandwich?And why do you know where everything is in the kitchen?”I’m starting to feel a little lightheaded and I don’t know if it’s from Tate or lack of calories, but all of a sudden, I feel the need to sit down.As inconspicuously as possible, I take a seat at the closet stool at the bar, prepared to make my sandwich from here.
“You’re having one of your things again, aren’t you?”she asks with narrowed eyes, and I lay my head into my folded hands.The coward’s way out.
“I’m fine, Tate, I just need to eat.”
“Hmm,” she hums, in a way that calls hogwash without saying a single word.After moments of hearing nothing but movement, I peek up through the folds of my arms to see Tate folding the salami on top of lettuce, tomatoes, turkey, cheese and ham—exactly how I would have made it.I want to tell her to stop, that it only makes me feel worse to see her taking care of me this way.It’s too nice, too caring...altogether, too much.Darkness starts to creep in from the corners of my eyes and I work on taking long, even breaths.One Mississippi.Two Mississippi.
The clink of the plate on the stone counter in front of me breaks my cycle.My sandwich.I lift my head up just enough to take a bite of one of the two sandwiches she placed on the plate before putting both the sandwich and my head back down.That’s when I feel it.Circles of heat against my flesh, her hand on my back.I follow the pattern.How the big swoops dissolve into small ones that birth more big ones, and before I know it, the darkness is gone, and my breathing is back to normal.I lift my head cautiously, grabbing the sandwich and taking another bite.It’s perfect.I take another and another until I’m 100 percent certain that I’m back to normal.Tate takes the stool next to me and I work to think about anything but her close proximity.
“To answer your question, I knew you were making a sandwich because you pulled out turkey and ham.A good guess, I suppose.And as far as knowing the kitchen...I couldn’t sleep the first night and cooking kind of settles me.”I watch her shoulders rise and drop before she speaks again.“Now, your turn.How do you not know any of the songs?”
I swallow the last bite of my first sandwich.“I know of them, but I don’t know them, if that makes sense.They’re...I don’t know how to say this in a nonsexist way, but”—I take another bite, hoping something a little more polished comes to mind, but when it doesn’t— “chick music.”Tate doesn’t immediately react, so I take another bite.In the past, I’ve been given the boot by girls for making comments like that.The tips of her mouth pull upward into a soft smile.
“What do you mean ‘chick music’?Like, sung by women?”she asks.
I nod emphatically.“That, and context.”Tate does that one-eye squint thing that says she’s not sure.I roll my body to one side, pulling my phone from my back pocket.I unlock it and open the email Jan sent before handing it over to her.She takes it and looks down, scrolling to the bottom before her mouth drops wide open.
“As I live and breathe, Levi, this woman hates you!”she exclaims before curling over and laughing.
“Right?I pushed for a change, but she wouldn’t budge.”The stool scrapes against the tiled limestone floor, making an abrupt screeching sound as I push off the island and take my plate to the sink.
“Maybe it’s not that bad,” I hear her say behind me.“Do you want some help?”
“Aren’t you watching a movie?”I say, squeezing dish soap onto my plate and scrubbing it clean.
“I’ve seen it so many times, I probably know every line.”
I switch off the water and put my plate in the drying rack before turning to face her.“You want to help me?”I ask, dipping my chin into my chest.
“I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t.”
I stare at her for a minute, knowing that absolutely nothing good is going to come from spending more time with her.
“Alright.Where to?I would suggest the theater for acoustics, but I guess that’s occupied.”
“Hmm, come to my room.We have a closet that could easily double as a bedroom but will have minimal echo.”
