14
Raine
Sometime between thismorning and the time it took for the sun to set again, I've lost a part of myself. Maybe it's my integrity—what I had left—or maybe it's my inability to care, but seeing that man—Frederick Leigh—again, knowing what he's done, forced all my suppressed feelings to resurface. There was a boundary between us while I was mowing his lawn. He didn't make contact with me, and I didn't make contact with him. An envelope with my weekly pay was left in the mailbox, and that was that—his peace offering. That's how sorry he felt—sorry enough to offer me twenty bucks a week to mow his acre of land with a push mower. And I was delusional enough to agree. Just as I was today to take more from him. Crossing his path is something I have avoided for fear of losing control, but I proved to myself today that I have more self-control than I gave myself credit for. Nevertheless, one way or another, that asshole is going to get what's coming to him, if it's the last thing I do.
I ring the bell on Haven's front door, watching the front light flicker on while the sound of stomping feet grows in volume. The door swings open, and Haven is standing in front of me, looking like a hot mess. Half of her hair is up in a messy bun, while the rest of it is loosely framing her freckled face. She's dressed as if she were going to bed, but at the same time, wearing that sexy red lipstick she wore the first couple of times we met up. She looks up at me expectantly, with an impish grin. “Do I want to know what you've been up to or why you're wearing that lipstick after I asked you to stop torturing me with it?" I ask her hesitantly, focusing on what appears to be flour coating the front of her tight, black tank top.
Her grin widens, and I see the devil gleaming in her eye. "Come on in," she says breathlessly, holding her wet hands up in the air. "I didn't think you'd be here so early." She jogs through the house, and I hear a pot or pan slamming against metal.
Curious now, I follow the sounds, finding Haven in the middle of the kitchen, circling around between three pots of over-boiling liquid, a running sink, an open fridge, and the center island, which is covered with a variety of ingredients. "Either you take cooking very seriously, or you haven't got a clue how to cook." I can’t help but laugh at the scene, regardless of her apparent flustered state.
"Both," she replies with haste. "Can you...um...stir the sauce? It's the pot on the right." I walk up to the stove and grab the wooden spoon lying in a puddle of red sauce on the counter. Spaghetti, sauce, meatballs, and what is that flour being used for? I may not want to know.
"What are you concocting here?" I ask, acting as though I haven't pieced most of it together.
"Spaghetti and meatballs," she says with a sigh. "I suck."
"Nah, you got this," I tell her. Lenore taught me to cook when I was young. She always said that a man who knew how to cook would never have a problem finding a woman to keep happy. I don't know how much truth is behind that since most of the women I have met couldn't care less if I cook, considering their one and only need, but maybe someone out there finds a man in the kitchen as attractive as a man slugging beers in a bar.
I help Haven out, seasoning both the sauce and the meatballs a bit, then mixing it all together.
A bell chimes and she runs to the oven with hot mitts to retrieve another item of food. "Cookies," she says, pulling down the oven door. "Oh, I mean…black cookies."
"My favorite kind." I give her a wink and take the hot mitts from her hands to grab the cookies for her and place the baking sheet on the counter. "You didn't have to go through all this trouble, you know?" I remove the mitts and drape them over the sink.
"I wanted to," she says. "We're celebrating."Celebrating. The only thing we should be celebrating is the simple fact that I didn't take her dad out with one quick swing today.
"This is very thoughtful," I tell her.
We dish out the food and sit side by side at the island, both taking small quiet bites. As it’s the first good meal I've had in longer than I can remember, part of me wants to moan with gratitude, but I do my best to conceal the satisfaction growing within me.
"So things are going to get better for you now, right?" she asks.
Never. "Hopefully, the extra cash will definitely help out."
"I know he can be a little rough around the edges, but if you can get past that, money is money."
That is what I have been telling myself all day long. "True."
"You don't seem as happy as I thought you might be," she says, cleaning up our plates and shuttling them to the sink. "I'm sorry if I was out of line with how quickly I executed my idea, but…last night was kind of eye-opening."
"I tried to warn you," I tell her as I place the cookie sheet down on the counter.
"As much as I hate what my father has done, at least I know that some of the money he stole is going to a good place now. It kind of made things work in my head. I don't know."
I'm not sure I understand how a thief could procreate such a loving person. Clearly, Haven’s mother hasn't put her foot down, and I’d find it hard to believe that she isn't aware of what her husband has done. With that in mind, it makes her just as big of an asshole.
I help Haven with the last of the dishes, studying her as she appears lost in thought. "I'm kind of surprised you agreed to come over tonight," she says.
"Why is that?"
"Well, it kind of seems like you regret every decision you make about me...like every kiss is a mistake, and every glance that lasts longer than half a second should never have happened.
"That's not entirely true," I tell her.
"Is it just me, then?" she asks. The look in her eyes kind of guts me. For however long she has been considering this possibility, it seems like the idea of it is killing her.
I grab Haven by her elbows and pull her in against my chest. Her heart is pounding against me, and I want to make her insecurities go away as I press my chin down on the top of her head. None of this is because of who she is. I like who she is. I like what she looks like. I like who she wants to become and who she doesn't want to become. We don't choose who we're born to, and I've been dumb enough to forget this applies to more people than myself.
