“Wait, what?” Rooney drops down at the dining room table, while I sauté shrimp, garlic, and shallots in butter. Thick linguine rests in the neighboring pan, tossed in olive oil and some Parmesan. The whole place smells like Mama’s and my favorite Italian restaurant, Squisito.
My heart sinks a little. It’s been so long since we were there. Maybe I’ll pick up Squisito takeout and bring it to the hospital when I visit tomorrow. But then I picture Mama trying to eat all that rich, heavy food she can’t stomach just to placate me, picking limply at her chicken parmesan and forcing bite after bite.
Maybe I won’t pick up Squisito.
“Willa?”
I snap out of it. “Right. Well…I elbowed him. I was so pissed he wasn’t giving me the notes. So, I elbowed him, he kicked my foot, I knocked off his ball cap, and he tugged my hair.”
Rooney rolls her eyes. “You should have just talked to him.”
“I tried!”
Not really. You did the minimal amount of talking—per usual—then assumed the worst.
Also typical of me. But you try having a sperm-donor dad who never bothered to know you, and a disappointing string of short-term boyfriends, then see where it gets you in your opinion of men.
Rooney opens her mouth, probably to call bullshit, but a knock on the door interrupts us.
“Ack!” she yelps. “That’s him.”
I return my attention to the cooking shrimp. “Yes, Captain Obvious, it is. Now go answer the door, please. I’m covered in garlic and I have to add the white wine right now.”
Rooney slinks off the chair and strolls to the door, squealing when she looks through the peephole. “You know, I was a little too enraged last time to notice, but he’s kind of cute. At least his eyes are. I can’t really see the rest of him.”
“Nobody can. He’s incapable of shaving his face or wearing anything besides a scowl, a ball cap, and flannel. Now open the door, already.”
Rooney yanks it open, and time suspends as I wait. What will this be like, for Ryder to be in my apartment, sitting across the table from me as we work together? He’s brusque and surly and he still hasn’t offered me the notes, but even so, he’s possibly not as terrible as I thought, considering he really just didn’t hear me. Still, it’s hard. It’s hard to look back on his response and not be angry, even if there’s an explanation that makes my anger irrational.
Maybe it’s because I sense that Ryder likes getting under my skin and pissing me off. Maybe it’s because I have an inkling that even if he weren’t deaf, he may well have played hard of hearing when I asked him. Ryder’s a teaser, an antagonist, a pain in the ass. Like me. I know when I see one of my kind.
He walks in, crossbody bag over his shoulder and ball cap pulled low. Once again, I’m reminded he’s not just an asshole. He’s a tall asshole. Broad shoulders, long legs. It feels like his presence takes up half the apartment. His head tips up when he turns toward me. Quickly his eyes drift up my body, then to my right, as he notices pans cluttering the range.
Our eyes meet. His are dark and intense as they lock on mine. It’s unsettling.
“What?” I ask.
He pauses, seeming to deliberate before waving a hand toward his nose, miming savoring a delicious aroma. Then, his fingertips tap his chin before dropping down. I know that one, and I put them together.
“Smells good?”
His lips barely tip in a grin, and he nods.
Rooney looks between us, mystified that we aren’t tearing out each other’s jugulars. There’s time for that, still. “So we don’t hate him anymore?”
My head swivels to hers, and Ryder’s follows suit. His eyes narrow. He missed what she said.
“You can’t talk around him, Roo. Say it again.”
Her eyes widen. “Seriously?”
Ryder nods.
“I said—” Rooney clears her throat, her cheeks turning pink. “I said ‘so we don’t hate him anymore?’”
Ryder smirks, then shrugs, gesturing toward me, as if to say, It’s up to her.
Rooney laughs nervously. “Okay, I’m just gonna…” She dashes out of the room. “Call me when dinner’s ready!”
I scowl at Ryder, then turn back toward the pasta, adding a final splash of white wine and watching it cook off. Up to me, is it? As if I’m the one who created all this frustration. Sure, it’s mostly Mac’s fault—he set us up for one big misunderstanding—but you’re telling me when you’re deaf, you don’t maybe give your desk-mate a heads-up about that?
Does he owe anyone who ever sits next to him his life story? Plus, you gave him death eyes. The first time he saw you, that’s how you were looking at him.
The sound of a photo being taken jars me. Ryder leans his phone my way, showing me a picture of my profile. My eyes are narrowed, my focus on the food while I know secretly my thoughts were spinning about the jerk-turned-stealth-photographer. My hair’s a giant puffball on my head. Loose curls gather at my neck, ears, and temple.
“What the hell?”
I smack his shoulder but he waves his hand, as if to say, No, no you don’t get it. Pointing first to the pan where I’m cooking, then the photo, specifically, the half of it taken up by my hair, Ryder then sets his phone on the counter, frames his hands around his head and makes the mind-blown gesture.
Heat crawls up my neck. “The humidity from cooking tends to make my hair get bigger, yes, you butthead.”
He cocks an eyebrow and smirks as his thumbs fly over his phone. My phone dings.
Does wonders for it.
I growl, shoving his phone into his chest and making sure he can read my lips. “Delete it. Didn’t your mother teach you not to take a lady’s photo without her consent?”
My phone dings almost immediately.
Didn’t know I was dealing with a lady.
“Out of my kitchen, Bergman.” I throw a hand in the direction of the dining room table as I pick up my phone to type. And let me be clear that if you were not my obligatory partner for this class, and my GPA wasn’t resting on our working together, I’d have kicked your ass to the curb five minutes ago.
My phone dings.
Duly noted.
Turning back to the food, I roughly toss the pasta, shrimp, and some sauce, perhaps with more force than necessary, but I need something to channel my fury. My hair is a sore subject. I’m constantly exercising and showering, so while everything I read about taming thick, curly waves like mine says I need to wash less and condition more, that’s just not practical for how active I am. I also hate that my unruly hair obviously came from the sperm donor, since Mama’s hair is poker straight. Every day, my hair is a reminder of the guy who fucked and trucked my mom, who wanted nothing to do with me. Ryder doesn’t know any of that, but it doesn’t matter. He teased me about it, and now he’s going to pay.
I glance at the container of cayenne sitting in the spice rack. Quickly, I add some to a bowl, pour sauce into it, then whisk it around and set it aside for Ryder’s serving. Just enough to get his tongue sweating, then make him shit fire in a few hours.
Behind me, I hear Ryder unpacking at the table, the click of his laptop on the hardwood surface, the dance of his fingers across the keys. My phone dings.