Page 6 of I Am Sin

He shrugs. “Uh…yeah. I’m pretty sure you understand English.”

I roll my eyes and turn back toward the kitchen. “Fine.”

I take the ground beef and form it into four quarter-pound burgers. “You want a double?”

“Yeah, sounds great.”

I fry three of the burgers, saving the fourth for my lunch tomorrow, on a cast-iron grill pan while I slice some tomato, onion, and avocado.

I pull two of my cousin Ava’s—she’s a gourmet baker in our small hometown of Snow Creek, Colorado—brioche buns out of the freezer and put them in the toaster.

The savory scent of beef fills my penthouse. It’s a comforting scent, a familiar scent. Reminds me of being at home when I was a kid, hanging with Brianna and our two older brothers, Dale and Donny.

Dragon is still standing in the foyer.

“You can sit down,” I tell him.

He nods and walks toward my small kitchen table. He lifts his eyebrows.

“Anywhere is fine,” I say.

He nods again and takes a seat—right in the chair I usually use, but whatever.

The buns pop out of the toaster, and I set each of them on a plate, dousing them with ketchup, mustard, and mayo, though I skip the mayo on my own. Once the burgers are done, I lay a slice of cheese on Dragon’s bun, place a burger on top of it, and then top the second patty with the remaining two slices of cheese. I swear to God, my stomach gurgles as I do it. That’s way more cheese than I can eat at one time. I’d be spending the evening in the bathroom. I finish with lettuce, tomato, onion, and avocado, place a handful of potato chips on the side, and take the plate over to him.

“What would you like to drink?”

“Water’s fine.”

“You sure? I have diet soft drinks and iced tea.”

“Water,” he repeats.

Okay, then.

I grab a glass out of my cupboard, fill it with ice and water from the door of my refrigerator, and take it to Dragon along with a napkin.

When he doesn’t eat, I say, “Go ahead. I’ll be here in a minute.”

I assemble my own burger with only one slice of cheese—the Gouda—and sit down opposite Dragon at my small table.

He takes a bite, chews, swallows, and then wipes his chin with his napkin. “Good,” he says.

“Glad you like it.” I take a bite of my own burger.

It’s good. Delicious, actually. My family raises the best beef in the nation. Even our ground beef, which is made from the less-expensive cuts, is tastier than most non-Steel filet mignon. It’s all grass-fed, which gives it a richer flavor.

Dragon doesn’t talk as he eats, and I start to feel a little awkward.

Okay. Alotawkward.

Why did I invite him in here for dinner again? Just to prove some stupid point about me not being a big snob?

I like to savor my food. I don’t like to eat too quickly. Everyone in my family was raised to appreciate food—the fact that it’s art as well as sustenance. Each flavor and texture is something to be discovered and enjoyed. Even something as simple as a burger.

But tonight? I snarf down the burger as if I haven’t eaten in weeks. The sooner we’re both done, the sooner I can escort Dragon back to the door and end this unease.

Once I’m finished, I pick up my plate and take it over to the kitchen.

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