Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 85535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
“We don’t have junk food.”
Of course they don’t. “You know what I mean.” I set the containers back on the counter and wait patiently for her to decide whether she wants me to put them in the fridge or crack them open so she can eat. I nudge the sauce container forward. “It was good.”
“I love spaghetti.”
“Who doesn’t?”
“It was my favorite school lunch growing up.”
I laugh. “Mine was the square pieces of pizza. I would fold mine in half and dip it in ranch dressing.”
Lilly pulls a face. “Ranch dressing—blech.”
I go to the cabinet and grab a plate, begin to build her a meal, noodles first. Her eyes watch my every movement intently, tongue licking along her bottom lip.
“Don’t ever do that again,” I warn her. “That was so weird.”
Her elbows rest on the counter as she takes a seat in a chair, leaning forward with a grin. “You think everything is weird.”
She’s not wrong. “True. But licking your lips is super weird.”
“I’m hungry! I was showing my enthusiasm.”
“Yeah—maybe don’t do that.” I crack open the sauce after tracking down a ladle, spooning a heap onto the delicious pile of noodles. It’s a meat sauce with chopped up herbs and spices, chunks of tomato—and meatballs. They’re my favorite, so Mom loaded my container.
“Um, more sauce please?” Lilly blushes prettily when she asks, and I duck my head so she can’t see the blush on mine.
Gosh she’s cute.
So pretty.
Bet she could light up a room on a miserable, dreary day.
I put more sauce on her plate and set a piece of cheesy garlic bread on the side.
She eyeballs it. “I better not eat that.”
“Why? Because it’s carbs?”
“No, because when I eat garlic or onions, I stink.” Lilly slaps a hand over her mouth and giggles. “I can’t believe I just said that.”
“Come on—I don’t stink after I eat garlic.” I don’t think…?
“I do.” She claps her hands when I slide the plate toward her across the counter. “You know how some people eat asparagus and their pee smells, and some people eat it and their pee doesn’t? I think it must be the same with garlic and onion.” With that pronouncement, she lifts the bread and takes a healthy bite out of one end.
Moans.
A string of cheese hangs between her mouth and the loaf as she groans, “Oh my god, this is so good.”
I know it’s not polite to stare while someone is eating, but she’s doing it in a way I can’t help but observe. It’s completely impossible not to watch her inhale the pasta noodles and the meat sauce, cutting up the meatballs with her fork like she’s in a race against time and hasn’t eaten in days.
Or like she’s in a spaghetti-eating competition and must beat an opponent.
She has no shame.
Or, she just does not give a shit about my opinion or what I think of her—because I’m not someone she finds attractive? Not someone who is a potential boyfriend? Wouldn’t she be more conscious of her behavior if she thought I was cute? She probably remembers what a dork I was when I was a freshman and thinks I’m a dork today. Lilly was up in my bedroom; she saw all my nerdy awards, trophies, and ribbons.
Whatever, I’m never going to be her boyfriend, let alone date her, so what do I care what she thinks of me.
I’m cool being her friend.
Besides, she just broke up with some douchey football player; clearly that’s her type.
Plus, she’s sworn off men, and I fall into that category, don’t I?
I glance away to give her privacy.
“Oh my god.” She moans, sucking a long noodle back into her mouth. “This must have tasted so much better coming off the stove.”
“It was fantastic.”
“I should have gone with you tonight. What are you having next week?” She laughs, wiping the corner of her mouth on a napkin she’s plucked from the nearby napkin holder.
“Er, spaghetti usually, unless I ask for something different.”
She nods. “Heaven.”
As someone whose mother was home most days after school and cooked up a storm every weekend, I suppose I may take for granted the fact that my mom is such a good cook. I can’t remember the last time we didn’t have family night on Sunday or the last time she didn’t make something homemade; I don’t have to ask Lilly to know that certainly wasn’t the case in her house growing up.
Lilly continues to eat, eventually finishing the entire meal while I stand there awkwardly. She finally puts down the napkin, resting it on the countertop to signal that she’s done eating, and smiles at me.
“You’re going to have plenty for yourself, I hope.”
“Oh for sure, don’t you worry about me. Plus, there’s more where that came from.” I gesture around at the containers. “This is way more than I can eat myself, and I don’t exactly love the idea of having spaghetti from now until next weekend.”