Page 86 of Deja New
She followed him into the kitchen, which was small and sleek with dark wooden cupboards and black appliances, and took a seat at the butcher’s block.
“Angela, you don’t have to eschew wine because I can’t drink with my medication.”
“I don’t think I was ‘eschewing’ anything. And youcan, but... you probably shouldn’t.”
He laughed. “Excellent point. But please, have whatever you like, truly.”
“Water really is fine, sparkling if you have it.”
“Oh, I’ve always got some of that on hand. I have an unfortunate addiction to chocolate egg creams.”*
“I’ve got no idea what those are.”
“Too bad, because I am sworn to guard the family recipe—also from my grandmother—for life. But they’re wonderful, trust me.” He pulled out a small bottle of Perrier, made use of the ice dispenser in his fridge, and poured her a cold glass. She drained it right away—stress was a notorious dehydrator—and he promptly refilled it.
“So.” He paused. He waited for his brain to spit out the right thing to say, something that would fix everything and make her smile and reassure her that her uncle might not give a shit, but she was surrounded by people who cared about her.Think of something. Anything. An affirmation of life. A knock-knock joke. Something.
Drawing a blank here, his brain replied.Sorry, old friend.
He cleared his throat. “So. About what—”
But she was already shaking her head. “Nope.”
He took the cue and backed off. “As you like.” But now what?
Angela, thank God, seemed to know. Of the two of them, she was definitely the least jittery. And the most dehydrated. She drank half her second glass, got off of the stool, and walked to the fridge, where he’d been stuck as he begged his brain to cooperate.
“Tell me to stop,” she said, “and I will.”
Then she kissed him.
