I sigh. “So do you.”
I put my hand on his. He smiles for a minute and gets out of bed. I watch him grab the bag he brought with him and disappear into the bathroom. I hear the water start to run. The walls are so thin here. I shift in the bed, trying to get comfortable. It’s no use; I’m utterly restless. I know I can’t sleep now. Once I’m up, it’s so hard for me to get tired again.
The crickets are singing. It’s been a while since I’ve heard them. When you live in a high-rise, you miss out on the luxury of hearing their lulling, albeit sometimes annoying, song.
I get out of bed and turn on the radio on the dresser. Smooth sounds, the only thing Raven listens to, pour out of the speakers. I’ve learned to appreciate it more than I did in my younger years, when I found it beyond boring. But now the music hypnotizes my mind into forgetting the stresses that burden most of my thoughts.
My eyes drift to the alarm clock sitting comfortably between three books and an old photo of me in high school. The light green numbers tell me it’s 3:20. I really need to be asleep. I cover my mouth, trying to hide the yawn that sneaks out. I’m not tired. Well, my mind isn’t, but my body disagrees.
I flop back on the bed and lie across it, resting my face on the mattress, absorbing the remnants of Cal’s warmth on the bed. I close my eyes, hoping the music will work as a lullaby to put me to sleep. I hum along with the song, catching on to it after a minute. I feel the light shining in from the hall, but it soon disappears. I recognize his scent and open my eyes. I love his cologne, but the truth is he doesn’t need any. His own scent is intoxicating.
“I’m hungry,” he says, standing at the foot of the bed.
“You want to go get something?” I ask, getting out of the bed and searching for something within my reach to throw on, even though we’ll be driving a while to find something open around here. I grab his black button-up from the floor and put it on. It, of course, engulfs me.
“Come make me something,” he says, leaving the room.
“You must really be hungry if you’re going to eat what I cook.” I snicker, and we both head down the stairs and into the kitchen.
He turns on the light and sits at the table. I look at him curiously.
“Are you going to stand there and look at me all day? My stomach’s kind of growling,” he says teasingly while rubbing his stomach, then he rests his head in one of his hands.
I playfully roll my eyes at him. “Excuse me.” I touch my chest indignantly and make my way to the cabinets. I pull out a loaf of bread and open the fridge and retrieve a packet of ham.
“Nuh uh,” he says.
I look back at him with my brow arched.
“Cook me something,” he dares, his eyes smiling.
“You really want me to cook?” I ask in disbelief.
He folds his arms with an amused grin. In the entire time I’ve known Cal, he’s never asked me to cook anything. I told him I was a terrible cook when we met, and so far, he’s taken my word for it. But I can plate a meal like nobody’s business.
“Only if you promise you’ll eat whatever I cook,” I dare him, folding my arms.
“Deal.”
I assume the “thinking position,” with my chin in my hand, trying to come up with something at least edible. It’s morning; eggs are easy. I’ve seen them cooked a thousand times.
“Get ready for the best eggs of your life, Mr. Scott,” I brag as I open the fridge and grab cheese and eggs.
“Just promise me it won’t be my last meal.” He laughs.
I shoot him a warning glare and prep my cooking area. He walks over to the counter and leans against it—the better to watch me, I guess.
“You want a cooking lesson?” I joke while washing my hands.
“More like making sure you don’t burn Raven’s house down,” he says.
I jokingly nudge his chest. “So first you crack the eggs,” I begin to explain, demonstrating the process. The egg falls neatly into the bowl, but… oh crap.
“I don’t think the shells are supposed to be in there.” He muffles his laugh with a hand over his mouth.
“It adds to the texture,” I say sarcastically.
He shakes his head and grabs a fork and attempts to get them out.
“You’ll eat those shells and like it, remember?” I say, referencing his earlier promise.
He sighs. Not feeling so smart now, huh, buddy? I sprinkle the salt and pepper into the bowl then reach for the butter to add.
He grabs my wrist. “Okay. I think the butter goes in the pan, not the actual eggs.” He laughs.
“Well, in my eggs it does,” I say, swatting him away.
He suddenly puts his hands on both my shoulders and moves me out the way. “I think I’ll take it from here.” He snickers, and I pout.
“But I thought you wanted me to cook,” I whine.
“I thought I did too,” he mutters, and I playfully hit at him.
Begrudgingly, I walk back to the table and watch him make his way around the kitchen. I have to admit he seems much more acquainted with it than I am.
“Since when did you become a master chef of the kitchen?” I ask as he whips the eggs like a pro.
“You don’t have to be a five-star chef to make eggs.” He winks.
I’m really starting to regret not honing my cooking skills during all the times Cal has been gone. In what seems like no time at all, the eggs are cooked, and he sets before me a plate of the most mouthwatering eggs I’ve ever seen. He scoops a spoonful and lifts it to my mouth. Oh, sweet Jesus, it’s delicious.
“Okay, you win. I’ll work on the cooking thing,” I say as we both dig in.
After a few moments, I decide to take advantage of his good mood to tell him something. “So I’ve been thinking of going back to school to get my master’s.”
“Why would you want to do that?” he asks, unimpressed.
“Well, I haven’t really done anything with my undergrad. It’s been something I’ve been thinking about.”
He’s quiet.
“Your thoughts, sir?”
“You know how I feel about that sort of thing,” he says, finishing his food.
“A master’s isn’t like a bachelor’s, Cal. It holds more weight and prestige.”
“It’s a crap piece of paper you have to drop thousands of dollars on and waste years of your life over, to work in a miserable job that you’re going to end up hating.” He gets up to take his plate to the sink.
“It’s not only about that. It’s to prove to myself I can still do something on my own. I can achieve something outside of…” I trail off at his disapproving look.
“Look, I think it’s good that you want to do something to challenge yourself. I think with me working like I have, something to occupy your time is good, but why a master’s in English? Do you want to teach now? You despise the corporate world. What are you going do with it?”
I push my plate away, annoyed. This really isn’t going as I wanted it to.
“I think you should open a gallery,” he says, taking a seat at the table.
My eyes widen in surprise. “Really?”
He folds his arms. “Yeah, why not? Your stuff is just as good as the shit Dex has on his walls.”