“Spicy doesn’t bother you?” I ask, reaching for the chips and forming the base on my plate.
“I love things a touch spicy, but jalapeños are the hottest I go. A friend of mine used to use ghost peppers on her tacos and I almost died just by smelling them,” she says, taking her plate over to the table. “My eyes would water through the whole meal.”
I chuckle, scooping my first chip in the barbecue pork and cheese mixture, making sure to grab one of the jalapeño slices and a touch of sour cream as I do. “Damn,” I mutter, chewing and savoring the spicy, tangy taste. “This is good.”
“I could eat this kind of food every day. Dips too. I don’t need meat and potatoes, though I do appreciate a good steak too. Usually, if I have time, I make this Velveeta and RO-TEL dip that’s amazing.”
If my mouth wasn’t watering before, it would be now. “That sounds delicious.”
She shrugs, scooping a chip in the topping and popping it into her mouth. “It is. Easy too. I’ve even made it before where I’ll add a pound of sausage or ground beef and call it a meal. I think it all stems from nursing school. My roommate and I would have to eat on the fly around classes and work, so you just do what you have to do.”
“Makes sense,” I interject. “I’m so used to eating on the fly during the day because of my job and being in the military, so I try to make better meals at night.”
“I know you are a heavy equipment operator, but what exactly do you do?”
“I work on roads and bridges mostly. It’s pretty cool.”
She grins. “You were a Matchbox Car kid, weren’t you.” It’s not a question, and her comment makes me laugh.
“Absolutely. I was a messy kid, always playing in the grass and dirt.”
“I can see that.” She shifts in her seat, looking up and meeting my gaze. “And…thank you for your service.”
I nod, never really knowing what to say when someone thanks me for my service. I remember early on in my career, a man walked up to me in the airport when I was catching a flight home and thanked me. I just nodded and shook his outstretched hand. But that show of appreciation went a long way for me. I never say you’re welcome, I always just nod. Why? Because it’s what I do—or did—and I’d do it again a thousand times over. I was only one small piece of the massive puzzle that is our armed services, and I was proud to do what I did. Still am.
I’m a proud U.S. Marine Veteran.
We make small talk about easy stuff, nothing heavy like pasts and families. Though, my family is anything but heavy, I sense there’s a little more weight to hers, based on the few things she’s mentioned. So, we talk about our jobs mostly, and I find it fascinating to hear her talk about nursing. She doesn’t go into any specifics, thanks to the HIPAA laws in place, but the occasional nameless funny story is appreciated.
“He was six, and he asked me if his mommy was going to poop out his baby brother like she did him,” Oaklee states through her giggles.
The sound is…refreshing, and a little erotic.
“Classic,” I reply with my own chuckle.
“Anyway, that little guy was a handful. I’m pretty sure the mom wanted to crawl beneath the table and hide. The moment the doc sent in her prescription for an antibiotic for her chest cold, she hightailed it out of there, practically dragging him behind.”
Our plates are empty and so are the glasses of margaritas. “Kids say the darndest things.”
“That they do,” she confirms, standing up to collect the empty plates. “Do you want more?”
“No, I’m full, thanks. It was delicious.”
“You’re easy to impress,” she quips as she throws our paper plates in to the trash can and moves to put the leftovers in the fridge.
I get up and move to the blender. Instead of pouring what’s left in the blender into our glasses, I decided to pour two shots of tequila. Since she only has one shot glass, I pour a shot and dump it into my glass and refill the tiny glass with liquid for her. Carefully, I take the glass, shot, and bottle and head for the living room.
There are still a few boxes stacked in the corner, but for the most part, she has everything set up from her move. I set the items down on her coffee table and smile when she joins me, a hesitant look on her face.
“I thought we weren’t doing shots?”
“The margaritas were for the easy stuff,” I tell her, holding out the shot glass for her to take. Now, if she tells me no, I’m not going to press or force her. She doesn’t want to do it; she doesn’t have to. But sometimes you need a good stiff shot of liquid courage to say what’s on your mind.
She joins me on the couch, sitting toward the front. She looks a little stiff, even after the margarita, and I understand that. She doesn’t really know me, even if she did allow me into her house.
“So, what’s the hard stuff?” she asks as I take my glass with my own shot and hold on to it.
I lean back, kicking an ankle over my knee. I’m trying to show her I’m not threatening in any way, and she holds all the cards. “First off, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, including drink that shot. Understand?”
