Page 33 of Not Until Her
Time begins to slip away as I watch the sunset behind the buildings in my neighborhood. My podcast ends, so I put on another: some true crime story the app recommended to me. I’m a couple hundred levels deep in this silly little game. The weather is a bit better than the night before, and I am dressed appropriately. My rainbow fuzzy socks come halfway up my shin, and my oversized sweater is practically a blanket. It’s the least stressed I’ve been in weeks, and I forget how nice it is to just sit around doing nothing. Sure I feel good after a nice, long, productive day, but downtime is important too. I need more of it.
I must doze off without realizing, because I open my eyes when I hear footsteps on the stairs again. Falling asleep outside with my front door unlocked is not the smartest thing I’ve ever done, but I can’t say I’m surprised that my body is still trying to catch up on sleep whenever and wherever it can.
She appears at the top, hair in the messiest bun I’ve seen, looking grumpy and in a hurry.
“I really don’t have time to talk,” she mumbles without looking at me.
Actually, that’s not completely true. She looks at my socks. There’s an unmistakable few seconds where she doesn’t look away from them. Her expression gives nothing else away, not how she might feel about them or anything. She doesn’t stop moving towards her destination.
“Okay?”
I wasn’t going to make her talk, I’m hardly even conscious. I don’t say that though, I just watch as she lets herself into her apartment.
She slams the door behind her.
I’m looking down at two giant dishes of lasagna. I wasn’t initially expected at dinner, so I have no idea what army Amelia was cooking for tonight. As far as I know, it was just supposed to be her, Sam, Autumn, and Miles. None of which typically eat very much anyway. At least, not compared to how much food I can put away.
“Is this one dairy free?”
I know one of them is. Amelia never forgets to make special accommodations for Autumn. Fake cheese is starting to look so real these days, because they are identical. I’d have no way to tell.
“Yes,” she responds. As soon as she looks away, she looks back again. Her eyes dart back and forth. “Wait, maybe. Miles!”
His head instantly pokes into the kitchen.
“Yeah?”
“Can you try a bit of the cheese on top and tell me which one is which? I can’t remember.”
He rounds the corner, his shoes loud on the kitchen tile. He must have rushed here after work, because he’s still wearing scrubs. That’s the only indicator, considering he looks wide awake and ready to tackle anything.
That energy level is going to be really nice when they have a newborn soon.
Grabbing a fork from the drawer below, he takes a small bite of the one I suspect to be fake. I’m going off of zero evidence, just a hunch. When I raise my brows in question, his scrunch together. Without a word, he goes for the next one.
A few seconds pass, and he appears to really be thinking about it.
“Well?”
“Oh, it’s definitely that one,” he says, pointing.
I lift my heels, raising up and down in silent celebration that I was right.
Probably one of the more useless reasons I’ve given out points, but he gets some for confirming my hunch without even knowing it. Just a few, nothing too crazy.
“I think that’s the one I want tonight,” he turns to tell his mother. “I don’t even like cashews, but they really did something here.”
“Cashews? What does that have to do with anything?” I ask.
“Fake cheese,” he offers.
“What do cashews have to do with fake cheese?”
He blinks, seeming confused at my question.
Autumn walks in, interrupting whatever he might have said. Her head falls on my shoulder when she reaches me.
“Where’s Dahlia?” she asks.