“I’ll get a blanket so it’s softer.”
Something catches in my chest and I swallow. “I don’t mind it hard,” I say. “I mean, the floor being hard. I can sit on anything.” I don’t have a clue what I’m saying. “Sure, get a blanket.”
Maybe we should have stayed at Mrs. Gretchen’s.
Boen
I need a moment upstairs while I grab the comforter from the spare bed.
What just happened? How did my rude, laughing, dog-loving neighbour become good-smelling Rachel who fits amazingly well in my arms?
Is it because I’ve had too much to drink? Because I don’t think this heady fog that came over me when I opened the door is solely the result from the alcohol.
In fact, there’s a lot that has changed since the last time I saw her, and I suspect that’s Mrs. Gretchen’s fault.
Do I care?
Not remotely, not right now. And to make it even sweeter, I hear Bexley’s voice in my head cheering me on to live a little.
With enough deep breaths to make me worry I’m about to hyperventilate, I head back downstairs. When Rachel smiles at me, it feels like she’s a different person.
Soon, we’re settled on the floor on the blanket. Rachel pulls an odd assortment of food from her basket; huge green olives and a wedge of Brie that looks like it’s been cut with a spoon, and another hunk of cheese she says is Gouda. Instead of crackers, she has three croissants.
“From Pain au Chocolate,” she says as she puts them on one of the plates I provided. “Have you been there? It’s amazing and close enough to walk, which isn’t a good thing because I walk there a lot. These are from there, too.” She takes out a plastic container with two cupcakes inside. “Reuben makes the best cupcakes.”
I don’t say anything, just watch as she continues to pull things out, like it’s Hermione’s magic bag. Green grapes, an orange, a cut-up red pepper. A bowl of dip that vaguely looks like guacamole and half a bag of tortilla chips. Almonds, pretzels and an unripe banana.
“Did you use this as an excuse to clean out your fridge?” I ask as I take a grape.
“I prefer to snack rather than make a meal. I can cook, just choose not to unless it’s mandatory.”
Awe and wonder mix with a little bit of fear as I watch her slather half a croissant with the dip, using a piece of pepper as a knife. “When is it mandatory?”
Rachel rolls her eyes as she crams the croissant in her mouth. “It was always required with the ex-BF because he refused to cook and yet hated takeout,” she says through a mouth full of food. “I had to become a very good cook because he had standards. It was better with Liv because she liked to be in the kitchen, but eventually I did most of it because I work from home.”
“As a dog walker,” I say with more excitement than I’ve ever shown talking about dogs.
“And graphic designer.”
“Graphic novels. I remember.” I pop another grape in my mouth and cut a slice of the Gouda. “How do you like that?”
We talk about her work, and I carefully store every nugget of information. Because as much as I pride myself on my understanding of things, Rachel is a mystery to me.
Because, again, how can an annoyingly rude woman morph into this cute and funny girl who smells so sweet?
Just watching her eat is a revelation.
It must be the alcohol. Once I put the bottle of spiced rum on the blanket along with two glasses, Rachel reaches for it. “Liquid courage,” she says, raising the bottle. “Slainte.”
“The chemical reaction of alcohol doesn’t actually make a person brave, but the inhibitors…
Rachel stares wide-eyed at me as she demolishes the bunch of grapes. “You’re rumsplaining.”
“I’m not, it’s just I understand chemical reactions and I’m trying to explain—Yes,” I concede. “I’m explaining rum.”
“You’re really smart,” she states.
“No more than the average doctorate student.”
