Page 12 of The One I Hate
A burger. No, pizza. No! Tacos.
Wait…I got it…burger-pizza-tacos.
Why has no one invented that? I should.
You know who could invent that? Charlie. She always came up with these delicious and fucking weird food combinations when we studied for tests. I bet that’s why she’s a chef now.
“What are you doing?”
Bug turns over her shoulder, a smile covering her gorgeous face as she dances in my kitchen to some pop star I know by name only. The song is catchy though.
“Dancing.”
“I thought you were making us snacks,” I say as I go stand next to her, my back to the counter so I can look at her better. She looks free. Happy. I don’t always see that when we study. She usually looks like she has the weight of the world on her shoulders. Though she’ll never admit she does or tell me why.
“You can do two things at once,” she says. “Plus, kitchens are made for dancing.”
“Really?” I say. “I’ve never heard that.”
“They are,” she says as she bops her way to me as she carries some sort of food in her hand.
“What’s this?”
“Rice cake pizza.”
I blink my eyes a few times. “Excuse me, what?”
“You heard me. Rice cake pizza. Try it.”
I shake my head. “Charlie. I’ll buy us real pizza.”
“Nonsense. Why buy pizza when you can have these?”
“Because real pizza is the best pizza.”
“Just try.”
She hands me her weird pizza thing and I take a bite. It’s good. Really good. Surprisingly light.
But I’m not about to tell her that.
“It’s all right,” I say, but take another bite to finish it off. Bug sees the smile I’m trying to hide, which brings a blush to her cheeks.
It’s fucking adorable.
The song changes, and this one I know. It’s a song that actually reminds me of Charlie. Independent. Her own woman. Plus, it’s a slower R&B song, which gives me the excuse to do what I’m about to do.
I push myself off the counter and grab her hand, pulling her away from the snack making and into my body.
“What are you doing?” she asks as we start dancing in the middle of my kitchen. My hand is around the small of her back and her hand is perfectly fitted into mine as I hold it against my chest.
“You said kitchens were for dancing. So let’s dance, Bug.”
The elevator jerking to a stop snaps me from my memory.
Finally. Because I need to get to my room. And order food. Then eat the food. Then pass out.
Maybe then I’ll finally stop thinking about her.
