“I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable, but I can also see you’re cold.” He laughs.
“Yeah. Well, I think I’m fine,” I say, praying I don’t jinx myself. I haven’t been in Wesley’s house much, we’re always outside—in the barn, in his truck…heck, in a combine. But almost never his house.
I follow him out and across the stone driveway. Snow is falling slowly, but the wind is swirling around, blowing down my shirt and up my sweatshirt sleeves.
The house is quiet, barely lit—only the light above the sink and a hall light are on. I hear faint sounds of a TV upstairs and his parents talking. I take my boots off and set them beside Wesley’s before I follow him to the kitchen.
He reaches into a cabinet. “Thirsty?”
“Sure.”
He fills two glasses and hands one to me. I sip it right away, still waiting for the anxiety to hit.
“We can watch a movie? Or we can talk? I don’t care,” he says, sitting down on the couch. I sit beside him. This is so strange. Not the being with him part, but the being in hishousewith him part. And watching a movie? We’ve never watched a movie together.
“Whatever you wanna do,” I offer, and he laughs, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Okay, I’ll turn something on. We can still talk.” He grabsthe remote.
I look around the living room. It looks the same as what I remember. Warm and cozy, mismatched furniture, a lot of pictures on the wall, a bookshelf in the corner full of books, his dad’s chair in the other corner just like how my dad has his. A lamp on each end table because there are no ceiling lights. It’s exactly what a farmhouse should look like.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
“No, I ate dinner.”
“I didn’t…you care if I eat? I don’t have to eat in front of you if your—”
“I’m not anxious, it’s fine.”
“You sure?”
I smile and nod. “Mm-hmm.”
He brushes his hand across my back and says he’ll be right back. I make myself comfortable, pulling the folded blanket over my legs and adjusting the fluffy pillow behind me.
I hear Wes in the kitchen, cabinets opening and shutting, silverware clanking against a dinner plate, the microwave humming and beeping every so often.
I give him another minute before I get up to see what he’s doing. I didn’t think reheating food was such a big to-do.
When I turn the corner, I see a mess of things across the counter. Flour, chocolate chips, milk, sugar.
“Wes, what are you doing?” I laugh.
He looks over his shoulder at me. “I’m making us a brownie in a mug.”
“A what?”
“Like a single serving of a brownie? You don’t have to eat it. I want one, but I was going to offer you some too,” he explains while he wipes down the counter. I walk over tosee his creation steaming in a big green mug. Smells like a brownie…looks like one too.
“Is there egg in it?” I ask, because that would have to be cooked, and I’ve never cooked an egg in the microwave. I think it’s possible though.
“No, it’s just flour, sugar, cocoa powder, baking powder, salt, milk, oil, chocolate chips.”
I can’t help but smile at him.
“What?” He laughs.
“You’re cute.” I poke his stomach.
