Page 48 of Lotus

“You’re really adamant about this, huh?” she determines, leaning back on her palms, Indian-style. “You don’t think it’s too soon? Too much at once?”

Alexis scampers away with the toy, and I stretch out my legs. We returned home from the library a short while ago. I filled out an employment application, while introducing myself to the female librarian Sydney is friendly with. It went over quite well. The visit has given me a newfound confidence to pursue other avenues that have ignited my curiosity lately.

Or, perhaps,sheis the reason for my spike in confidence.

“I did too little for too long,” I reason, catching her gaze again.

“That’s fair.” Sydney’s tongue pokes out to wet her lips as she nods. “Why me, though? I don’t exactly have the best track record or qualifications for this sort of thing.”

“Because I trust you.”

It’s an obvious conclusion. There is no one else.

She swallows. “Okay. I guess I can help as much as I can. Just know… dating is subjective. One woman may like certain things, while another will want something entirely different.”

“I understand. What do you like?”

A head tilt and pursed lips show me she is thinking about my question. “Food. Laughs. Movies on my couch.”

“I can do that. I’ll cook for you,” I offer, pleased at her response. I was frazzled by the notion she may prefer upscale restaurants, limousine rides, and lavish gifts. But as my eyes case Sydney in her grungy tank top, a black beanie hiding her wild hair, and a crusted paint stain still spotting her collarbone… I know she is not that kind of woman.

Sydney holds up her index finger, as if a brilliant idea has sprung to her mind. “And I’llhelpyou cook. That’s where the laughs come in.”

We ended up making chicken cordon bleu, only we used mozzarella instead of Swiss cheese—Sydney claimed that Swiss cheese was the equivalent of stepping on a Lego in wet socks.

The analogy was lost on me, but it sounded unpleasant.

Sydney had the task of placing the frozen bag of broccoli in the microwave to defrost, garnering a dramatic bow as she took mock pride in her contribution to supper. Laughter poured out of me all evening, particularly, when a song came out of the speaker that had Sydney turning up the volume, dragging me away from the stove, and forcing me into a series of clumsy, highly uncoordinated dance moves.

“I know every freakin’ word to this song!” she chirped over the vocals, swinging our arms about and stepping on my toes. “What is a Chinese chicken? No one knows. But we’re all here for it.”

Sydney pulled back to break out an impressive solo, echoing every word, not missing a beat. She even used a spatula as her impromptu microphone. Hair flying, limbs animated, smile as wide as the feeling of enchantment that had punctured its way inside my heart.

She was still out of breath when the timer beeped, alerting us that supper was ready. “One WeekbyTheBarenaked Ladies,” Sydney informed me, a sheen of sweat reflecting off her face as I pulled the casserole dish from the oven. “A nineties classic. I’m totally teaching you all the words.”

“I’m not confident I could memorize that. It was fairly intense.”

“Practice, Oliver. I believe in you.”

Thirty minutes later, we are finishing our meal on Sydney’s oyster-toned sofa with a mewling cat to my left and a swooning woman to my right. The swooning is derived from a mix of the chicken dish and Westley’s character inThe Princess Bride.

“My God, when he hands her the bucket,” Sydney says dreamily, her eyes glued to the screen, a sigh following.

A joke crawls up my throat. “If I had known you were so easy to please…”

“Oliver!” She snaps her head my way, giggles bursting out of her, and then she’s collapsing backwards onto my lap. More laughter rumbles through her, causing her entire body to vibrate atop my thighs. “Funny, charming,andyou can cook like nobody’s business. Is there anything you can’t do?”

“Sing. Specifically, that strange song.”

Her amused grin remains, and my hand finds its way to the contour of her hip, holding her almost possessively. Something flashes in her eyes like blue lightning, stealing her smile, replacing it with an unfamiliar expression. While she doesn’t remove my hand, she does twist onto her side until she’s facing the television, and my hand slides up to her opposite hip. “You don’t ever get tired of watching this?” Sydney remarks after a comfortable silence envelops us.

“I am not fatigued.” Her ensuing snicker has me reevaluating the context of her question.Oh. “No, I do not get bored with it.”

“How many times have you seen it?” she inquires.

“Approximately six-hundred times.”

“Holy crap.”

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