Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 107803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
His response doesn't answer my question, but it quells some of my anxiety, like maybe he can't see the flaws I see. Maybe what I see in the mirror, the girl my mother raised in little houses, isolated and overprotected, isn't the same woman he's looking at. Maybe one of us isn't seeing me clearly here, and maybe it's him...
Or maybe it's me.
"So you want noodles?" I ask, shifting the subject. "Like, honestly want me to make them?"
"I do," he says.
Sighing, I step over to the cabinet Melody and I share, opening it up to glance at the food. There isn't much. It's been weeks since either of us went shopping. "What flavor?"
"Whatever flavor a noodle is."
"They come in different flavors." I hold up a few packages, showing him. "Beef, chicken, shrimp…"
He grimaces. "Give me whatever your favorite is."
I grab the pink package. Shrimp.
I lead him out of my room and to the small kitchen. My pot from yesterday is still on the stove, still filled with water, the abandoned package of noodles on the counter. I discard it, rinsing out the pot and filling it with fresh water before setting it back on the stove to boil.
There's nothing in here except for an old stove and a sink and a mostly empty refrigerator, a few pots and pans in the cabinets that have been collectively donated. I wait for him to comment on it but he doesn't, instead leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms over his chest.
I can feel him watching as I wait for the water to boil, feel his eyes glued to me as mine are glued to the pot. I know the saying—a watched pot won't boil—but I can't seem to look anywhere except for at it. As soon as it starts bubbling, I toss the noodles in, feeling silly as I clear my throat. Am I seriously doing this? "We just have to boil the noodles for a few minutes."
"Huh." He pushes away from the counter and steps behind me, so close I can feel his breath on my skin, as he peers over my shoulder at the pot. "And where does the flavor come from?"
"This," I say, holding up the square silver packet of seasoning.
He takes it from me. "And why does it look like a condom?"
"Good question," I say, stirring the noodles. "I don't know."
"So what's in this?" he asks, flipping it over, surveying the outside, but it says nothing except 'shrimp flavor'. "Do you at least know that?"
"A hell of a lot of sodium. About as much MSG."
He glances between the package and me. "Now I think you might be trying to poison me."
"A little salt won't kill you."
"I'm an old man, Karissa. It might."
"You're not that old," I say, turning to face him, seeing the amusement crinkling his eyes. "I mean, yeah, you're older, but you're not old. It's not like you're entitled to a senior citizen discount. You're barely old enough to be my father."
As soon as I say it, his expression shifts. It's like he's been doused in gasoline, washing away every bit of humor as fire sparks inside of him. I can see it in his eyes, the bright blue hue darkening, as they narrow, turning cloudy and murky, like a storm is waging. My muscles grow taut as he takes a sudden step toward me. I instinctively want to step back, but I can already feel the heat from the stove creeping up my spine.
I don't want to get burned.
"Your father?" he asks, his voice low. "Is that what you see when you look at me?"
"What? No, of course not." I grimace, realizing how that must've sounded. Gross. "I'm just saying, you know, you're twice my age… not that it's a bad thing. You're just... a little older."
I stare into those eyes, cursing myself for upsetting him. He says nothing, just staring back, his expression as hard as stone. Seconds pass, seconds that feel like they last a lifetime, before movement in the doorway catches my attention.
I look over just as a girl struts in… I vaguely recognize her from encounters in the hallway, brief trips in the elevator, but I don't recall ever talking to her before. She glances up, a can of soup in her hand, and lets out a gasp of surprise when she sees us. "Shit, sorry, I didn't think anyone was here."
My stomach clenches from nerves, my heart hammering hard in my chest. I feel like I've been caught in a compromising position, like this girl has just walked in on something she shouldn't have seen, that she knows things now she shouldn't know about me. It's silly, but after spending my entire life having my mother drill the concept of privacy and propriety into me, I feel exposed, his proximity so intoxicating it's like I've just been caught with a needle in my arm.
He's a drug, an addictive one, and I'm not sure it's a habit I can kick. All it took was one hit. One strong, euphoric hit and I was hooked.
Naz just stands there, in front of me, not reacting for a moment. The fire in his eyes fades, his stance relaxing.
"I'll just come back," the girl says. "Sorry."
She's gone before I can even think to tell her it's okay. What happened to my manners?
I turn away from Naz, glancing back at the stove, and switch off the noodles before they turn to mush. Sighing, I grab the seasoning packet as he holds it out to me.
"Are you mad?" I ask him as I stir the seasoning into the pot. He's being too quiet. I worry I've offended him.
"No," he says quietly. "I'm just wondering if me being here is wrong."
"I'm allowed to have guests," I reply. Granted, I'm supposed to have him show ID in the lobby and sign in, but still… him being here isn't wrong.
"That's not what I meant."
I grab two bowls and divide the noodles before turning to him. All that anger is gone, but he seems genuinely conflicted. "Does it bother you that I'm so young?"