Babe.
I should probably hold off on calling her stuff like that, but it just comes out automatically when I’m with her. It’s like I can’t help it.Stick with Foxy. That’s what Ishoulddo. For now, anyway.
Back in front of me, she holds out a spoon for me. “Hope you like it.”
With spoon in hand, I dip into the golden broth in search of a noodle or two. When I’ve got what I need, I open my mouth and taste. It’s good. Not great. Not as good as Mrs. M’s, for sure, but no way I’m saying a damn word about that. “Mm. Really good.” I nod and smile up at her. “Sit.” I use the spoon to point to the seat beside me. “Want to watch something?”
“Oh.” Becklyn starts to look nervous. “I’d better not stay.”
“Why not?” Damn. I thought we were friends again. And hopefully a whole lot more. I need to go for it. Nothing to lose, right? “Please stay.”
With a sigh, Becklyn takes a seat in the chair across from me. I’m disappointed she wouldn’t sit beside me, but baby steps. She watches as I eat. To reassure her that I, in fact, love the soup, I say, “Your mom would be proud of your attempt at her soup.”
“Attempt?”
Oh, motherfucker. Did I say the wrong thing? “You know what I mean. That you made her recipe. Honestly, don’t tell her I said this, but I think yours is better.”
“You do?” Becklyn’s face lights up.
Phew.
“I do. Yours has more noodles, for one, and that’s the best part of chicken noodle soup as far as I’m concerned.”
“Me too.” She’s scooted back into the chair now, getting more comfortable. Or at least I hope that’s what she’s doing.
“Take off your coat. Stay a while.” Sure, that’s a cliché, but I mean it.
“I can only stay for a few minutes. I’ve got a paper to write.” She rolls her eyes.
“Oh? What’s the topic?”
Unzipping her coat, she pulls it open and slides if off her shoulders, saying, “English 207. It’s a creative writing assignment that’s supposed to be something fictional and in first person. I’m really not sure what to write.” Placing the bowl up to my mouth, I pour the last drops of soup in. Becklyn must be pleased, because she’s smiling when I set the bowl on the table. “There’s more if you want some?”
“I’m good for now, but I’ll definitely eat more later.”
She smiles with pride. “Good.”
“So, your story….” I lean back in my seat. “What if you wrote a love story.” Those words just slipped out of my mouth involuntarily, but now that they’re out, I’m thinking this is genius.
Her face shows no expression whatsoever. I keep going. “About a girl, a beautiful girl who’s funny, sweet, smart, and a pain in the ass.”
She arches her brow. She’s getting a hint about where I’m going. “Sounds fictional already,” the smartass states.
Holding up my hand, I scowl to get her to stop talking. I’m not sure why I think that’ll work. It rarely does with Becklyn. “The guy in the story is sort of good-looking but not too bright.”
That got a smile out of her.
“He doesn’t see what’s right in front of his face.” I look into Becklyn’s eyes. “Not for a long time.”
The girl hasn’t moved or said a word. Good.
“Until one day, he finds this girl at home on the night of the big, fancy ball.”
“A fancy ball? When does this story take place? Regency times?” Her tone is sarcastic. I’m not sure I like it.
Ignoring it, I shrug. “Sure. That sounds fun.”
“I’m no Jane Austen.”
