Page 31 of A Play For The Heart
all my ghosts—Lizzy McAlpine
Sawyer
Oh,Henry!”Isingsong as I throw open the door and saunter into his apartment, hands full of groceries. “I'm here.”
I slip my shoes off by the front door and turn to figure out where the kitchen is when I stop in my tracks. This is the first time I've been to Henry's apartment and holy shit it isnice. He apparently spared no expense when he decided where to live. Perks of being a first-round draft pick, I guess. I unglue my feet from the entryway and wander into the massive living room and kitchen combination when my jaw drops. I thought my apartment was nice but compared to this place I've been living in squalor. The living room has high ceilings and massive windows with a view of the Seattle skyline. The area is surprisingly homey, with paintings scattered on the wall and a throw blanket on the back of the couch. The living room is cozy, but the real star of the show is the kitchen, which seemingly emerged straight from my dreams. Stainless steel appliances. A large kitchen island. And...is that a KitchenAid mixer?I could spend the rest of my life in this room and die a very happy woman.
As I begin to imagine everything I could cook and bake in the beautiful kitchen where I'm seriously considering becoming a squatter, Henry ambles down the hallway with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist.
Holy fuck.
He looks like a wet dream. My mouth goes dry, and my eyes immediately travel the plains of hisverybare torso. Tan skin stretches on for miles as I watch, enraptured, as droplets of water drop from his hair and travel down his chest, then onto his rippling abs, finally descending into the towel. What I would give to be one of those water droplets. I slowly drag my gaze back up to Henry's face, where he’s smirking at me, watching me ogle him. Suddenly, my cheeks go fire engine red, and the room feels way too small and way too hot. I rip my eyes away and busy myself with the groceries on the counter to avoid eye contact.
“Sorry, I didn’t realize you were in the shower. The door was open, so I assumed it was okay to just walk in.”
This must be my end. Time for me to go.
‘Died from embarrassment’ is what the mortician is going to write on my autopsy. Not only did I spend far too long ogling Henry, but he also caught me in the act. And he smirked.
He. Freaking. Smirked.
Cocky bastard.
Henry chuckles at my reaction, walks past me, and heads towards his bedroom. And since I apparently have zero self-control or self-preservation skills, my eyes linger on his sculpted back as he walks away from me. Even through the towel, I can tell the man has an ass that doesn’t quit.
What is happening to me?We don’t ogle best friends. Even ones that look like they were sculpted from marble.
I take the next few moments to cool down, fanning myself with my hands. A few minutes later, Henry resurfaces from his room, fully clothed. I feel an immediate sense of disappointment at that fact. I quickly shove that concerning feeling aside and attempt to act as normal as possible.
Which means I act like a total nut job.
“I'm making cookies!” I blurt out before Henry can even attempt to get a word out. “I wanted to thank you for coming to GameChangers and I know how much you love cookies, so I figured why not make some with you so you can learn how. Obviously chocolate chip. I even splurged on the good chocolate. You’re welcome.”
My rambling and quick thinking of mentioning food must have worked because Henry doesn’t mention my blatant staring and instead focuses on the word ‘cookies’.
“Thefamouschocolate chip cookies?” he asks, hope resonating in the question.
“Yes, the most famous chocolate chip cookies,” I laugh.
If I know anything about Henry, it's that the man loves chocolate chip cookies. In fact, I would probably say he borders on being addicted to them. The first time he tried them, I brought some with me when we met up to do our group project in undergrad. I figured it would be a friendly gesture, but I didn’t expect him to become obsessed with them. After that, he would text me asking if I had made cookies about once a week. At one point, I was concerned he was becoming too dependent on them, so I had to withhold the cookies. I was genuinely concerned about his blood sugar levels. That did not end well for either of us. Henry was even more insistent about the cookies after that, so eventually I gave in and made them for him again. There’s nothing super special about the cookies, except for a ton of butter. But he’s adamant that they're the best in the world, and I won't be the one who corrects him on that. Every time he says it, I feel all warm and fuzzy.
Henry comes to stand beside me in front of the kitchen island and begins to pull all the ingredients for the cookies from the grocery bags. I work my way around the kitchen, collecting what I need to make the batter. As I search drawers and cupboards, my eyes keep moving back to the KitchenAid mixer on the countertop. The shiny, cream-colored mixer draws my attention. Calling my name. I can hear it whispering in my ear,use me.
Why did Henry buy a mixer?
My mind keeps wandering, trying to come up with an answer. He knows how to cook and he’s not half bad, but he’s not making anything fancy that requires a mixer like that.
Oh my god. Does it belong to a woman?
Does Henry have someone coming over and baking things for him? The thought causes my stomach to flip and drop, like a rollercoaster ride from hell. A feeling foreign to me that I do not have the bandwidth to decipher. I need to know, but I need to be subtle. The last thing I need is for the question to come out sounding like jealousy. Because that’s not what I am. I'm simply curious. No envy here.
“Um...Is it okay if I use the mixer?” I say, breaking the silence.
“Oh, yeah. I figured you would,” Henry responds casually, organizing the ingredients on the counter.
“You figured I would?” I ask, not understanding the statement, but also annoyed he wasn’t forthright with how he came into possession of the thing. I'm clearly fishing for information, and the fact he didn’t just tell me is bothersome.
There may be a tad bit of jealousy. Who's to say?
