The last person I expected to be making Thanksgiving dinner with.
5
Luke
Josh unceremoniously pulls me into the kitchen and I stand there awkwardly as Charlotte gives me a once over, obviously not impressed. I can’t say for sure, but it seems like she’s been avoiding me the past few weeks. She chooses a different spot in the lecture hall every time, always between two people that are already seated, preventing me from sitting next to her again. After not knowing she was there that whole first part of the semester, I somehow now have a Charlotte radar to locate her in the crowded room. I’ve tried to talk to her after class too, but she zips out of there like the devil is on her heels.
If she was uninterested in me, okay, I can get the hint. But I heard and felt her response to me Halloween night. She’s into me, and I thought I made it clear to her the next day that I’m into her too. I put the ball in her court and what I want to know is what’s holding her back. So there’s no way I’m going to let an opportunity like this go to waste. “You need some help?” I ask, the answer obvious based on the amount of food and chaos I see around me. It’s like Thanksgiving threw up in this tiny apartment kitchen. The striped apron she’s wearing is covered in flour and grease, her cheeks flushed from the heat coming off the boiling pot on top of the stove. Is seriously no one helping her?
“Yeah,” she says, turning back to the stovetop and pouring flour into a measuring cup. “You can mash the potatoes. They’re already drained and in that bowl there.” She points to the counter next to her, avoiding my gaze.
I walk over, pick up the masher and start pounding away, working in silence beside her. Over the mouthwatering aroma of the roasting turkey filling the kitchen, I can still catch a whiff of her tempting vanilla scent, making me want to lean in a little closer. After a minute she says, “Oh, let me get some stuff to put in those,” walking to the fridge and pulling out milk, butter, and sour cream.
“Sour cream?” I question, and I must look really skeptical because she gives me a big grin. It lights up her whole face, bringing me back to seeing her that first day smiling at the TA and why I was so drawn to her.
“Yes, sour cream.” She spoons a generous dollop in, along with another scoop of butter. “It makes it nice and creamy.” As she adds a splash of milk, her arm brushes mine and she jerks back, spilling the liquid all over my crotch. She looks down in alarm at my jeans, mouth hanging open. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” she rushes out, red blooming on her cheeks. She’s definitely an easy blusher.
She whips around, setting the milk on the counter and grabs a dish towel, dropping down and frantically pressing the cloth against me. All I can do is stand there, willing my dick to relax as she innocently touches me. Watching her on her knees in front of me, her face so close, her hands handling me roughly... I take a deep breath, striving to keep my lust at bay.
I can see the moment when she fully realizes what she’s doing, stilling her movements and slowly looking up at me in horror. To my surprise, tears fill her eyes. I drop to my knees too and grab her arms. “Charlotte? Are you okay? What’s wrong?” I look her over, but can’t see anything bad that happened.
“What’s wrong?” she whispers, her eyes big and mouth slack. Her gaze darts furtively to the kitchen entryway, before continuing, “What’s wrong is that somehow I can’t keep my hands off you and continually embarrass myself in the process.” She starts to laugh a little, first quietly, then slightly hysterical. “And the craziest thing is you keep coming around!” She wipes her eyes, but at least she doesn’t seem sad, just distraught. She drops her head into her hands and mumbles, “I’m sorry. Again. You must think I’m mental.”
I move my hands from her arms to her back and pull her into a hug, my chin resting on top of her head. Her face nestles into my neck and I have to resist the urge to take that whiff I wanted to earlier. I’m pretty sure that will freak her out even more. “First of all, stop apologizing. It was a mistake today.” I tentatively rub her back, the material of her maroon sweater soft against my fingers, feeling some of the tension in her shoulders subside.
“Last time, eh, not so much,” I tease. She begins to pull away and I tighten my hold, not quite ready to let her go. “Kidding, I’m kidding. It could happen to anybody.” She leans her head back and gives me a deadpan look. “All right,” I admit, “you do seem to get yourself into some strange situations. But I like it. You just can’t help yourself around me,” I tell her, giving her a goofy smile. I have two teenage sisters, so I get the crying thing, and I always find the best thing to get them to stop is to make a joke and focus on something else.
She busts out laughing. “Oh my God, you are so full of yourself.” Her body shakes with amusement, the awkwardness of before dissipating. She fully pulls out of my arms but stays seated on the ground next to me. “So, was there a second of all?”
Oh, right. “Yeah. It’s that I don’t think you’re mental or crazy or any other kind of label you want to put on yourself. Unless there’s some obscure word for the unluckiness of creating embarrassing situations for yourself. The Germans probably have some long, unpronounceable word for it.”
She gives a soft chuckle, eyes shining. She looks down at her lap, brushing away some flour that spilled on her. “You know how I asked you in class a few weeks ago if we could forget about Halloween night?”
“And I told you I couldn’t.” I give her a level look. “I admit, I don’t know you all that well, but it seemed like you let a lot of inhibitions go and just let yourself feel. You don’t do that all too often, do you?”
Her hands twist in her lap. “No,” she clears her throat, “I guess I don’t. Becca actually called me out on that a little earlier and she was right. I need to be more open to people.” She pauses, peering up at me. “Although, maybe not as much as I was on Halloween,” she says with a self-deprecating smile. “Anyway, we don’t have to forget about it, but can we start fresh? With you being close with Josh and Becca and our Psych class, it seems like we’re going to keep running into each other, and it would be nice to have a new friend. Does that sound okay?” She gives a nervous, hopeful smile, and even though I definitely don’t want to just be friends with her, I sense that pushing for more right now wouldn’t go over well. I can bide my time.
“That sounds great.” I stand and reach down to help her up, my hands engulfing her delicate fingers. “Let’s finish up this food.” I pick up the masher again and work on getting all the lumps out. “Did you make everything in here?”
“A couple of the girls brought plates and I’ll heat up some frozen pies for dessert, but other than that, yeah, I made it all.” She doesn’t say it with any boasting or pride, which surprises me because if I could cook all this, I wouldn’t be as humble about it. “I mean, Josh and Becca ‘helped’,” she says with air quotes, “but neither of them really belong in the kitchen. I ended up putting Becca in charge of washing dishes and setting the table after she almost sliced off her finger.”