I laugh. “Youareyoung,” I say.
“I mean, like…before all of this…” she says. I wait because I can tell she’s thinking about telling me more. But when she goes quiet, I realize she’s afraid to say too much.
“You enjoy dancing,” I say, and she looks over at me.
“I do. I was going to go to school for it,” she says.
“What happened?” I ask. I can tell by the way her face changes that the question was far more loaded than you would think.
“Things changed,” she says. “Are you hungry?”
The hard left turn in the conversation tells me one of two things. Either I’m treading in a no-trespassing zone, or her stomach is too empty for dark roast coffee.
“Sure,” I say. “What would you like? I have eggs, sausage, oatmeal, toast, avocados, bacon, cereal.”
“That sounds good,” she says.
“Which part?” I ask.
“All of it,” she says, and I scratch the back of my head.
“Alright. Does this mean you’re feeling better?” I ask.
“Told you it wasn’t a hangover,” she says as she grabs the sourdough bread and walks past me. She smells like strawberries, and that oversized T-shirt actually looks really good on her.
We mash up avocados and spread it on thick cuts of toasted bread. Then we top it with bacon, feta, and balsamic drizzle and take it to the couch.
“God, I love avocado toast,” she says as she takes a generous bite.
“It is strangely good,” I say. “I have to admit I was skeptical.”
Mila stops chewing, her eyes wide. “You haven’t had avocado toast before?” she asks.
“Nope.”
“Never?” she asks.
“Never,” I answer, taking another bite. “It’s good.”
“My dad loved avocado toast,” she says, licking the balsamic drizzle off her finger. “He loved avocado anything. He used to grow his own.”
“He grew avocados?” I ask.
“He had two trees in our backyard,” she answers.
“Where did you grow up?” I ask.
“Outside of Anaheim,” she says.
“Home of the Angels,” I smile.
“We used to go to games,” she says, and my jaw nearly drops.
“You like baseball?” I ask.
“I do,” she says with a smile, taking another bite. I’m loving this. Getting to know her is so intriguing. This woman has been right here under my nose for months, and I didn’t know anything about her. Until now.
“My dad likes baseball too. He watches every game. Not at the field, though. Just on TV,” I say.
