just don’t know it yet.”
“Dammit, Decker!” she raises her voice and smacks her hands on the table. “This is my life. You’re not a part of it anymore.”
Her words hurt, but I know she’s only saying what she’s saying because she’s trying to push me away. She’s hiding something. I can feel it. I spent most of the flight here analyzing her behavior when she’d been home. There wasn’t anything telling, but something was off…not quite right. And I’m determined to find out what it is.
“Casey, we became best friends when you shared your cookies with me.”
From somewhere behind me, I hear what sounds like choking. Casey rolls her eyes, leans to the left to see behind me and calls out, “Not those kinds of cookies, you pervert! What the hell did you do with my roommate?”
“Sorry,” Kate’s quiet voice calls out.
“I thought Kate was your roommate,” I ask, choosing to tackle the easiest part of what she just said first.
“She is,” Casey shakes her head as if trying to clear it. “She’s just being weird today.”
“What kind of cookies is she referring to?”
Casey groans and closes her eyes, her lips moving silently as if she’s saying a prayer—probably the serenity prayer. Finally, she tells me “She used to call her virginity her “cookie” as a code word. Kind of like how Monica called hers her ‘flower’?”
I look blankly at Casey. I don’t know what the hell she’s talking about. “Who is Monica?”
She groans again, “From Friends !”
Right, because that clears everything right up. Clear as mud. I blink once and continue to stare at her blankly.
“Whatever,” she says, shaking her head, clearly exasperated by my presence. “I know you well enough to know you’re not going anywhere. And I’m tired of arguing about it. At least I am today.”
I look at her and take her in, really take her in for the first time today, and I see she looks exhausted. Kind of like how she looked when she arrived home that day. I know better than to point out when a woman looks rough, so I take a different approach.
“You must be tired from your trip. Why didn’t you just fly? I only had to leave this morning and I got here before you.” She leans back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. She’s taking a defensive stance. Interesting.
“I don’t like to fly,” she says simply, shrugging her shoulders and raising her eyebrow as if waiting for me to challenge her. I want to fight with her about as much as she wants to fight with me right now, so I let it go.
“It’s not for everyone.”
Her eyes widen at my response, or lack thereof. “No, it’s not.”
I look at the clock on the microwave, eight p.m. I haven’t eaten since I grabbed a slice of pizza at the airport on the way to the cab line. I’m starving and right on cue my stomach growls.
“I was about to order some take-out, want something?” she asks, surprising the hell out of me. My eyes dart from the clock to her face, but her vacant expression doesn’t let me know what she’s thinking.
“That would be great, thanks,” I carefully agree, not knowing when the volcano is going to erupt again. “I didn’t rent a car, and I’m not sure a cabbie would appreciate taking me to get something to eat and finding me a room for the night.”
She looks thoughtful for a moment, then stands and grabs a folder from some big organizing thing hanging on a door off to the side of the kitchen—a laundry room maybe? She sets a menu from a health food restaurant in front of me. When I’d been playing baseball, throughout high school and until my shoulder got screwed up in college, I was a clean eater. I wonder if she’s throwing this out there because of that, but I know better than to question it when she seems to be extending an olive branch. I don’t want her to think I don’t appreciate her kindness.
I tell her my order—a turkey and avocado wrap with fresh veggies—and she calls it in. I
“Dammit, Decker!” she raises her voice and smacks her hands on the table. “This is my life. You’re not a part of it anymore.”
Her words hurt, but I know she’s only saying what she’s saying because she’s trying to push me away. She’s hiding something. I can feel it. I spent most of the flight here analyzing her behavior when she’d been home. There wasn’t anything telling, but something was off…not quite right. And I’m determined to find out what it is.
“Casey, we became best friends when you shared your cookies with me.”
From somewhere behind me, I hear what sounds like choking. Casey rolls her eyes, leans to the left to see behind me and calls out, “Not those kinds of cookies, you pervert! What the hell did you do with my roommate?”
“Sorry,” Kate’s quiet voice calls out.
“I thought Kate was your roommate,” I ask, choosing to tackle the easiest part of what she just said first.
“She is,” Casey shakes her head as if trying to clear it. “She’s just being weird today.”
“What kind of cookies is she referring to?”
Casey groans and closes her eyes, her lips moving silently as if she’s saying a prayer—probably the serenity prayer. Finally, she tells me “She used to call her virginity her “cookie” as a code word. Kind of like how Monica called hers her ‘flower’?”
I look blankly at Casey. I don’t know what the hell she’s talking about. “Who is Monica?”
She groans again, “From Friends !”
Right, because that clears everything right up. Clear as mud. I blink once and continue to stare at her blankly.
“Whatever,” she says, shaking her head, clearly exasperated by my presence. “I know you well enough to know you’re not going anywhere. And I’m tired of arguing about it. At least I am today.”
I look at her and take her in, really take her in for the first time today, and I see she looks exhausted. Kind of like how she looked when she arrived home that day. I know better than to point out when a woman looks rough, so I take a different approach.
“You must be tired from your trip. Why didn’t you just fly? I only had to leave this morning and I got here before you.” She leans back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. She’s taking a defensive stance. Interesting.
“I don’t like to fly,” she says simply, shrugging her shoulders and raising her eyebrow as if waiting for me to challenge her. I want to fight with her about as much as she wants to fight with me right now, so I let it go.
“It’s not for everyone.”
Her eyes widen at my response, or lack thereof. “No, it’s not.”
I look at the clock on the microwave, eight p.m. I haven’t eaten since I grabbed a slice of pizza at the airport on the way to the cab line. I’m starving and right on cue my stomach growls.
“I was about to order some take-out, want something?” she asks, surprising the hell out of me. My eyes dart from the clock to her face, but her vacant expression doesn’t let me know what she’s thinking.
“That would be great, thanks,” I carefully agree, not knowing when the volcano is going to erupt again. “I didn’t rent a car, and I’m not sure a cabbie would appreciate taking me to get something to eat and finding me a room for the night.”
She looks thoughtful for a moment, then stands and grabs a folder from some big organizing thing hanging on a door off to the side of the kitchen—a laundry room maybe? She sets a menu from a health food restaurant in front of me. When I’d been playing baseball, throughout high school and until my shoulder got screwed up in college, I was a clean eater. I wonder if she’s throwing this out there because of that, but I know better than to question it when she seems to be extending an olive branch. I don’t want her to think I don’t appreciate her kindness.
I tell her my order—a turkey and avocado wrap with fresh veggies—and she calls it in. I
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