7

“Why are you cooking?” Dane startles me from behind as he walks in, dumping his school bag on the breakfast island, and looks me up and down with a slight arrogance.  It makes me bristle all over, given it’s the first thing he has said to me in two days, and it’s not exactly a pleasant tone. Dressed in his uniform still, be it rumpled and untucked like always, so I guess he was at Tyler's until now as school got out two hours ago.

“Mum and dad are out, and Monique has a headache, so I told her I would make us dinner,” I answer flatly, ignoring him, and continue turning the meatballs for the pasta. I am hot and sweaty from slaving in here and not in the mood for his dickishness.

“Can you even cook?” He sneers, walks up, and leans over my shoulder to stare at what I am doing, getting a little too near for comfort, so his body heat envelopes me from behind, and I elbow him back. Suffocated by his presence, especially when he smells like he is freshly showered and has a new dose of aftershave on. For a guy who rarely irons his clothes, he always smells good, and it’s annoying. I don’t even want to know why he showered after school yet comes back in the same clothes.

“I’ve been cooking for myself for years. Do you think Monique works twenty-four seven in a house with two working parents? I sometimes fend for myself.” I shove him further away with a palm to his abs so I can move past and pick up the salt and pepper canisters on the next counter. “Get out of the way until it’s ready.” He’s making me feel hemmed in and touchy. I’m already in a weird mood and don’t need him to stoke the fire.

“I don’t like it.” Dane noses over my head at the pot, and I turn, glancing from the pasta to him, and narrow my eyes.

“What do you mean you don’t like it? You’ve eaten this anytime Monique makes it. That’s why I chose to make this….. you always eat it.” My voice pitches as anger bubbles, and I know I’m falling for his baiting, but sometimes I cannot stop myself. Dane is like a wound under a bandaid where you always have to pull it off and pick at it.

Dane picks up an apple from the center island and takes a loud crunchy bite. Resting his butt against the edge and lounging casually with that undeniable signature smirk showing face. He is facing me and spreading his feet, so he’s not as tall.

“That’s because Monique made it…  not you,” he grins and raises a brow at me before dodging back away from my slap swipe at him. Enraging me because he can and so effortlessly has me in stabby mode.

“Starve then. I don’t care. I won’t bother doing anything nice for you ever again.” I huff and return to what I am doing, sprinkling the seasoning before stirring the sauce pot and tasting it to check. I pause and glance around as he strolls to the refrigerator and retrieves a bottle of water before walking back to the bar and pulling out a stool. He slides in and nestles himself while propping his feet up and under and resting his chin on his palm on one elbow. I guess he’s decided to stay here and eat after all.

Dane quietly pulls over his bag and empties a random assortment of books, his cell phone, and general school stuff before picking up a comic and flicking through it. It looks old and worn like he’s had it for years, and I vaguely remember the cover. Sitting like that, looking like a rock star teen boy with something so juvenile in his hand in a cute pose from our younger days when I didn’t despise him so much, I get an inkling of something weird and warm in my stomach and tun fast to shake the image out of my head.

“Why are you talking to me, anyway? I thought you said I was to stay away and leave you alone?” I snort at him, annoyed because he dared to breathe my air and get in my space. Making me feel antsy and irritated.

“I’m not talking to you. I’m reading.” He answers with an empty tone and doesn’t pull away from his book pages. He misses my frowning a glare aimed his way, too busy leaning in and eyeing the pages.

“Hardly reading…. don’t you own any proper books?” I scoff, flick off the frying pan ring, and tip the meatballs into the sauce. The pasta is already rinsed and waiting to be served. I do so quickly and dump it out onto two plates.

Dane ignores me, and when I walk over and slide his plate towards him, he lifts his arms to take his reading material out of the way, face still engaged with it, and I push it under. Stopping to stare at him for a second and hating his lack of interaction.

“I hope you choke on it.” I shove his shoulder before turning on my heel and leaving him to it.

I sit opposite him and slide my cell from the table to where I am sitting, staring at the top of Dane’s head because he eats while flipping through his comic and blanks me. Fork to mouth automatically without lifting his eyes from the pages, and I am suddenly non-existent in his world. My eyes stray to what has him captivated, noticing there are old scribbles on the edges. Even the inside of his magazine looks old, and I wonder if he found it recently and is reading it for nostalgia. There is something vaguely familiar about it, but I cannot figure out why. I haven't seen him with a comic for years.

“I thought you stopped reading those when you were, like, ten?” I nose nod at the manga and get zero response. He stuffs a mouthful of pasta and uses his other hand to turn the page, not bothering to acknowledge a presence. No thanks for making him food, and it’s obvious I am getting zero conversation now too. Whatever has been eating him the last two days is still brewing, and I am being frozen out.

Asshole.

“Whatever.” I snort sulkily and push my fork into my mouth, chewing what should be a favorite meal for both of us, yet it tastes like ash. I have no appetite today. There’s nothing wrong with my skill in cooking but just my mood, and he has helped it get worse. I don’t know why I care.

I have left my dad a dozen messages in the last couple of days, and he’s not responding. He does this whenever holidays come up; even though I know it, it still hurts. I can’t help myself.

There’s a part of me that cannot give up on reaching out to him and trying to keep our relationship alive. When I was little, my father made me feel like I was the center of his universe, but the second they divorced, I became baggage. No matter how often I tell myself to let it go and stop chasing him, I just can’t.

I pick up my cell and open my messenger app, seeing all are still unread, even though the last one I sent over an hour ago. My father uses his cell for business, so there’s no way he’s not seeing them and knowing I am trying to get hold of him. He has one phone.

I hit dial instead and put my phone to my ear, holding my fork midair and staring pensively at Dane. My eyes naturally stray that way when he’s facing me, but somehow, his presence gives me courage.

The atmosphere is thick with static around us as I listen to the endless ringing, and my heart deflates and withers my chest. Dane glances up at me for a second, frowns at seeing me on my cell with eyes locked on his head, and goes back to eating and reading simultaneously with no visible reaction. He obviously felt my gaze.

Like every call this week, my dad's cell rings out and eventually goes to voicemail. I had avoided leaving one as it’s harder to conceal my disappointment that way, but I have had enough. He has no idea how much of a wound this inflicts when he dodges me and won’t outright tell me he doesn’t want to see me. It’s always an excuse of how busy he is, even though I am the one who flies there, gets myself to his apartment, and does everything for him. I learned to cook for that exact reason.

Maybe my heart would stop clinging on if he were honest and told me he didn’t want me to keep looking for him.