I pushed open the front door and was surprised to smell the lingering scent of banana bread in the air.
I knew my way to the kitchen. I had walked over these floorboards enough times to find it. The décor was the same it had been seven years ago. Nothing had changed. Yes there was fresh paint on the walls and new doors hung from the jams, but it was still the same.
It was almost jarring.
But I should have known Flynn would never alter what he knew. This was his sanctuary. This was his home.
How I envied him.
Flynn stood at the counter already slicing thick pieces of bread and putting them down on a plate. I brought the bags of food over.
“Where do you keep the plates?” I asked him.
Flynn pointed to a cabinet above the sink. I was surprised to find new dishes and glasses. I had expected to find the same floral pattered china that his mother had owned when I was last here.
“I always liked the flowered ones your mom had. As far as plates go, they were pretty nice,” I said, trying to fill the suddenly uncomfortable silence.
“They were ruined in the fire,” Flynn responded and my hands gripped the plate so tightly my knuckles went white.
But before I could freak out and run away, Flynn took the plate from my hands and placed it on the table.
“Come, eat,” he urged, sitting down and carefully opening the box containing Dania’s cheeseburger.
I sat down across from him and took the other box but didn’t open it. I watched as he lifted the bun and scrapped off the lettuce and tomato with a fork and then wrapped the discarded condiments in a napkin before throwing it away. He pushed the French fries off to the side, making sure they didn’t touch anything before picking up the burger with both hands and taking a small bite.
“Stop watching me,” Flynn said firmly when I hadn’t started eating yet.
I blinked and looked away, flushing at having been caught. I flipped open the box and started picking at my sandwich. My appetite still hadn’t come back but I couldn’t just sit there doing nothing.
Flynn polished off his burger quickly and then ate his fries, one at a time. Dipping each in ketchup and then wiping the excess off with his fork before popping it in his mouth.
I tried not to stare. But his eating habits were so ritualistic that it was fascinating.
“I told you to stop looking at me. I hate it when people look at me,” he mumbled, taking a drink of water.
“Why do you hate people looking at you?” I asked him. Though I could hazard a guess why.
“Because people aren’t very nice when they look at me.” He reached over and speared one of my French fries that I had yet to eat and dipped it in his ketchup.
Then without asking, he claimed a few more from my plate.
“Uh, you wanna ask before you take my shit,” I told him. Flynn took another fry and I dropped my hand down on top of his before he could escape with it.
“Don’t cuss,” he said crossly, wiggling his hand beneath mine, trying to pull away.
He released the fry and I allowed him to withdraw his hand and pulling it into his lap. He didn’t apologize. He didn’t excuse his deplorable manners. He just began to rub his hands together.
“People aren’t nice to me a lot of the times. They look at me a lot. Kevin said I had to learn to deal with it. That getting upset and angry would just make them look at me more. It’s hard though. Because I just want to tell them to fuck off,” he grinned then and I grinned back, forgiving his French fry transgression.
“Flynn, don’t cuss,” I teased, parroting the words he had just spoken.
He didn’t pick up on my attempts at a joke and instead hung his head. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
I clucked my tongue in frustration. “I was kidding, Flynn. It’s cool. I like a good fuck as much as the next gal,” I said. Flynn’s cheeks turned an alarming shade of red and then I realized what I said.
I cleared my throat, feeling suddenly embarrassed and self-conscious.
“Well, Kevin sounds like he knows what he’s talking about. Is he a friend?” I asked, trying to turn the conversation back into more comfortable territory.
