Page 71 of Renegade

“Mija?Do you think that can be worked into your schedule?”

Oh, shit. I’d zoned out.

“Absolutely,Abuelita.” Just then a loud screeching came from inside the house, “Um, I’m just going to have to call you back. I have another call coming in.”

“Lauren, is that the thing?Como es que se llama esa mierda… ah, smoke alarm! Do you—” I hit end and ran inside to a very smoky kitchen.

“Oh, Jesus!” I didn’t even know where to begin. I turned off all the burners and threw open the windows. When the alarms continued to screech, I grabbed a broom from the small closet in the hall and began waving it wildly under the detector, trying to push the smoke out.

All I managed to do was knock an empty pasta sauce jar into the floor with the broom handle, shattering it.

“Fuck!” I roared and flipped the broom over to sweep it up into the dustpan. In my haste, I rested my hand against the wood floor and sliced my palm open. I wrapped it in paper towels and continued sweeping as the screech of death continued.

Once I was certain that Mike’s kitchen floor was glass free, I tried to determine what set the detectors off. It was the spaghetti. I’d left the burner on high, so all the water had evaporated, leaving behind blackened sticks of pasta.

I grabbed a couple of potholders and carried the pot onto the back porch. Maybe it’d help clear out the smoke. I lifted the lid on the sauce and discovered that the bottom of the sauce had scorched on the pan, while the top still had bits of raw meat floating around in it.

My hand chose that moment to bleed through the towel and right into the pot of meat sauce. I couldn’t have stopped the tears even if I’d wanted to at that point.

I grabbed another bundle of paper towels and the bottle of wine and went back out onto the porch.

If he’d been on the fence about me before, this should firmly push me into the non-datable category. It wasn’t even about me not knowing how anymore—I just sucked. I tilted the bottle back and took a long drink.

Two bottles later and I still didn’t feel better about things. My hand was still oozing blood and I kept bursting into tears. This was why I couldn’t attempt to cook ever again—it was too stressful.

The dust kicked up out on the dirt road and I saw Mike’s truck.

“Well, it’s official. I’m about to be dumped,” I lamented, before taking another long swig and stifling the sob that was fighting to break free.

He parked and got out with a huge grin on his face. He took one look at my bandaged hand and tear-stained face and the grin faded.

He jogged up the steps. “Lauren? What happened?”

I held up the bottle and gestured with it wildly. “I made you dinner. And, well, it turns out that I don’t know how to cook. I should go.”

I stood up, but he stopped me. “Hey, calm down. I bet what you made is fine.”

I snorted, “Well, the spaghetti is nothing but burnt sticks and the pasta sauce has raw meat blended with scorched bits. Oh, and I bled in it on accident. It’s a real gourmet experience.”

He went inside and came back out almost immediately to join me on the swing. He took my hurt hand and unwrapped it. “I get what’s happened in there, but how did this happen to your hand?”

I held the wine bottle between my legs and wiped away the tears on my cheeks. “I set off the smoke alarm and then when I was trying to wave the smoke outside, I knocked over a jar of pasta sauce and it broke. I cut my hand trying to sweep that up.”

Mike pressed his lips into a flat line and looked away.

“Stop. Stop laughing. It’s not funny.”

His shoulders shook. “But, it kind of is. Jesus, Darlin’, you’ve had a day.”

The sky began to turn red as the sun set and I laid my head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I wanted to impress you.”

He pulled the bottle from between my legs and took a drink before replying, “Oh, I’m impressed. Up until now, I didn’t think it was possible for someone to have so many things go wrong while trying to make spaghetti.” I swatted him on the thigh and he grinned, “But, you made up for it with dessert.” Then he raised the bottle of wine in a toast.

I tapped my fingers against the bottle before replying sarcastically, “Yeah, I really saved the day.”

“You know, Red. I might have some Pop Tarts lying around somewhere.” Mike winked at me and took another swig.

I smiled. He didn’t care that I wasn’t Martha Stewart as long as I remembered to bring wine.

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