Page 37 of Jacked
That sleepless night really did a number on me.
I clear my throat and give him a lopsided smile.
“Thanks, man. You didn’t have to do that.”
He shrugs and uses his free hand to brush the hair off of his forehead. Without his hat to hold it, it just flops right back into place though. His eyes sweep over me and then dart away quickly.
“So… um… yeah. Breakfast!” He rattles the bag awkwardly.
“Cool. Let me go take a piss and I’ll be right there.”
He’s still being weird, and I wish I knew why. I head into the bathroom to take my morning piss and splash some cold water on my face. Cool droplets drip onto my bare chest as I reach fora towel to dry my face off. Maybe whatever’s going on with Slater can be fixed by me just acting aggressively normal. That sounds like a way better plan than trying to talk about shit. I’ve never been any fucking good at talking. There’s too much risk of saying the wrong thing.
By the time I get to the kitchen, Slater is perched on one of the stools, chowing down on a bacon, egg, and cheese breakfast bagel. The omelet he brought me is set out on a plate with a fork and a cup of steaming black coffee right next to it. My throat tightens again and a confusing, warm feeling swells in my chest.
“I was going to make you breakfast, but then I figured you’d rather have something actually edible,” he says with a laugh.
I chuckle and shake my head, sliding onto my stool and digging in. “You’ve been improving.”
He shifts in his seat and his knee bumps against mine. The accidental touch makes my leg hair stand on end and my stomach heat.
“How did you learn to cook?” he asks.
“Self taught.” I take another bite and chew slowly. It’s funny, I feel like I’ve known him forever and like we’ve talked about everything. But in reality, it hasn’t been that long and most of our conversations have been about sports or fitness techniques or sex. Not that I’m complaining—those are basically my favorite subjects. Slater feels like the kind of person I can talk about deeper shit with though. “My mom passed away when I was twelve.”
“Oh, shit,” he gasps. “I’m sorry, dude.” He drops his sandwich and reaches over to put his hand on my thigh. He squeezes it and scoots his chair closer.
“Yeah, it sucked.” Without meaning to, I press up into his touch. “My dad is kind of a ‘guys’ guy.’ He’s great, don’t get me wrong, but he definitely has an idea about whose job it is to cook and clean, you know? So, when she died, he was prettymuch helpless. He couldn’t even boil water without setting off the smoke alarm. It didn’t take me very long to get sick of eating fast food or frozen shit for every meal, so I went to the library and borrowed some cookbooks so I could learn how to make the basics.”
“Wow. That’s some badass self-reliance right there.” Slater squeezes my thigh again and the warmth of his touch spreads through me.
I let out a hollow chuckle. “You would think, right? My dad kind of mocked me for it.” I feel bad even telling Slater that. I don’t want him to think my dad is some kind of asshole, he’s just kind of old school about some things.
“He mocked you?” Slater’s eyebrows fly up and a thunderous look flashes across his face. It’s jarring in contrast to his usual relaxed, sunny smile. “For learning how to take care of yourself when you were twelve and your mom had just died?”
Okay, it sounds really shitty when he puts it that way.
“He doesn’t think cooking is very masculine. Unless it’s meat on a charcoal grill.”
“That’s horseshit. Being that self-sufficient and mature is the kind of masculinity we should all fucking aspire to. No offense to your dad, but fuck that.”
He shakes his head, his expression twisted into a scowl that is totally out of place on his face. I don’t like it at all. I want to say something to bring his smile back. Without thinking about it, I put my hand on top of his. He looks surprised, the sour expression falling from his face as he looks down at our joined hands.
Shit. What am I doing?
I yank my hand back and use it to reach for my coffee. The weight of Slater’s hand disappears from my leg just as quickly. While I scald my tongue with a too-fast sip of the coffee, I turn his words over in my head. Is he right? Obviously on some levelI’ve always felt like my dad’s views were pretty damn narrow and unrealistic, but I think they seeped in a little bit anyway.
Not just my dad. It felt like everyone growing up had the same idea he did in one way or another. Being a man means certain, inescapable things. The worst possible thing you could be in their eyes isunmanly—a pussy, a homo. I cringe internally, and all of those heavy knots in my stomach squeeze even tighter.
Of course it’s fucking stupid to think that cooking is somehow gendered. It definitely didn’t make my dad any more of a man that he couldn’t figure out how to feed his own kids without my mom around. But maybe that’s just the tip of the iceberg of what he was wrong about. I feel like there are even deeper revelations buried underneath that, but I don’t think I’m ready for them before I’ve even finished my coffee.
Slater finishes his sandwich and then clears his throat.
“Do you, uh, want to tell me about your mom?”
That warm, comforting feeling floods me again and I nod. It’s strange, but I feel like I could tell Slater almost anything.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
