Page 25 of Inseverable (Carolina Beach)

“Mmm.”

I lift the glass and take a big sip. As I swallow, all forms of death find their way into my stomach.

“The room’s too dark come sundown,” he continues. “So I figure?” He does a double-take when he sees me. “What’s wrong?”

I sprint to the sink and blast the water, trying to rinse the poison he’s given me from my mouth. Despite my valiant efforts, I can’t cleanse my tongue of the wickedness plaguing it. Callahan rushes to me, gathering my ponytail as I cough and gag.

“You okay?” he asks. “You sick?”

I glance up to where the glass remains perched on the counter, its contents appearing to mock me. “What did you give me?” I point to the glass. “What was in that?”

Callahan lets my hair slip from his fingers. “Sweet tea,” he answers, frowning. “You didn’t like it?”

No. It was brown-colored evil. Of course, I don’t tell him that. “Um. It was filling.”

“Filling?”

He returns to the fridge and pours an extra-large helping of that crap into a large glass. “You know what your problem is?” he begins.

I have taste?

“You blow things out of proportion,” he says, lifting the glass. “Every time. All the time.”

I bat my hand out. “Oh, that’s just not true.”

He scowls and takes a big gulp. That scowl vanishes about the same time that tea comes right back up. Now I’m the one smacking his back at the sink as he coughs and spews.

“God damn,” he says, reaching for a paper towel to swipe at his mouth. “What the hell did they put in that piss water?”

I try not to laugh, but it’s hard.

“Christ,” he says, wiping his mouth harder. “I paid six whole dollars for that shit.”

“Now Callahan, what kind of self-respecting Southerner doesn’t make his own sweet tea?”

“The kind who never learned how,” he admits. It’s only when he turns to face me that I realize he’s smiling.

“How about I make us some? You have tea bags?”

“You want to make me tea?” he asks, like he doesn’t believe me.

“I don’t want to make you tea, Ihaveto before that stuff kills you,” I say. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

He smirks, but doesn’t say much, motioning to a set of double doors. I bounce inside a large pantry stocked with enough food to survive two zombie apocalypses, and possibly an alien invasion. “Oh. This is nice.”

“Better to be prepared than not,” he says.

I step out with the tea as he places a pan onto an electric stove set behind the raised counter. The stove is nice, modern, and barely looks used.

“I’m going to make some eggs,” he says. “You want some?”

I drop the box of tea bags on the counter and lean against it, examining him closely. “How about I cook for you?”

“First you want to make me tea, now breakfast? What’s next?” he asks, meeting my eyes in a way that halts me in place.

“Whatever you want,” I answer quietly.

It’s not what I planned to say. It just came out. Yet it’s only when he straightens that I realize I crossed that fine line we’ve been straddling between somewhat friends and maybe something more. For a long few seconds neither of us move. I wait for him, hoping he’ll kiss me, or at the very least lean in and meet me halfway. But like a giant piece of granite he stays in place, even though his breath grow more pronounced the longer our stares remain locked.

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