“Kenzie thought it would be a good idea to try to mix tapioca pudding with grapes and ice.”
“Ew,” he says with a sneer. “Why did she think that would be good?”
“She was attempting to be creative. It did not work out.” I stick the other banana in the blender, and he tosses the peels in his compost bin on the counter. I’ve never composted before, but his building composts, so I’ve learned, and I’ve decided when my apartment is finally ready, I’m going to try it as well. “Okay, we just need the oats.” He hands me the canister and I pour about half a cup into the blender.
He takes a step closer to me and fidgets as he looks into the blender.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Huh? Oh yeah. Just interested in how it’s all mixed. Blenders are fascinating.”
I chuckle. “They are, aren’t they?”
God, he’s so strange sometimes. Confident and sure of himself.
Then completely awkward and aloof.
Funny and charming.
Dark and distant.
He’s put me through a roller coaster of emotions, yet for some odd reason, each of those emotions seems to fit him perfectly.
I turn the blender on and together, we watch the ingredients mix.
Yup, blenders sure are fascinating.
He steps in another inch until we’re next to each other. He keeps his eyes trained on the blender, but when I glance up at him, I catch his teeth pulling on the corner of his mouth as if he’s nervous.
“Worried about what it’s going to taste like?” I ask.
“Oh no, it smells good.”
“Okay. I promise I wouldn’t feed you sludge.”
He nervously smiles. “I trust you.”
What is with him?
I turn off the blender and detach the pitcher from the base. “This is seriously the best you’ll ever have.” He leans in closer while I pick up a glass. I hold it up to pour just as he lifts his arm. Assuming he’s trying to help, I turn toward him while saying, “I’ve got this.”
But as I turn toward him, his hand that was about to touch what I assume is my upper back, slides right over my shoulder and to my breast.
Exactly . . . on my breast.
Palm to nipple.
Eyes wide, I stare up at him and catch the realization cross over his face. His expression runs from interested to absolutely mortified.
“Oh fuck,” he says, lifting his hand off my breast as if my nipple just burned his palm. He then shakes his hand, attempting to what I can only assume is shake the cooties off.
But of course, because Halsey is Halsey, in the midst of his shaking, he slams my hand, sending the pitcher right out of my hand and straight to the ground between us, where it shatters, sending smoothie in every direction.
“Jesus fuck, I’m sorry.” He quickly grabs the paper towels and starts cleaning as I stare down at him, watching.
Did Halsey just touch my boob?
I think . . . I think he did.
