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"Nothing like that. It's probably best if I just try to forget about it. But yeah, I was on a date. You know Greg's friend, Ben?"
Tommy nods. "Well, we're not together anymore. We broke up over dinner, then there was this stupid message from my dad, and... I just couldn’t stay at my apartment tonight."
I regret spilling so much, but Tommy doesn't push for details. That’s something I always liked about him. He won’t pry. I could show up covered in blood hauling a dead body and he’d just ignore it if I asked him to. Instead, his gaze is still solidly focused on my tattoos. "You like them?" I ask, catching him staring.
"Yeah, erm, they're beautiful." He takes a swig of his beer, while his leg continues bouncing. I briefly wonder if he's nervous. "So, are you staying?"
Really, I hadn't thought about it. If Sam was here, it wouldn't even be a question. Since it's only Tommy, I should probably go home and try to sort through the mess of tattered clothes. "I don’t want to put you out."
He blows a raspberry and waves his hand. "Nah, I was bored anyway. How about we watch a movie or something?" Without waiting for my response, he’s already picking up the remote. “Endless Summer is on Netflix," I suggest, knowing it’s one of his favorites.
“Oh, sick.” He quickly finds the movie and turns it on. I toss my purse onto the coffee table and lean back. It’s a scene straight from our time together in Costa Rica. Though the apartment there didn’t have a TV. We would sit on the couch and gossip or drink and joke until falling asleep. Everything about the scene is so familiar that eventually I find myself lying down, tucking my feet up on the couch. Accidentally brushing against Tommy, I feel him tense up.
I chuckle to myself. “Chill, I’m just getting comfy.”
“No worries,” he says, but his voice is tight like my touch was covered in acid. With an eye roll, I try to ignore it. But I do get it. This is fucking weird. If I hadn’t had the night from hell, I would have left long ago. Actually, I’m surprised he hasn’t left. It makes me wonder what is going through his mind. But there’s no sense in trying to read his mind. The guy has always kept his thoughts close to the chest.
Twenty minutes in, Tommy sighs heavily. I look over; he's messing with his hair, making his abs flex. I quickly look away, so he can’t catch me ogling. He's clearly holding something back. "What?" I ask.
"Nothing," he dismisses.
I sit up, setting my beer down. "So, I can come over and vent, but you can't do the same?"
He smiles as his hand flops back onto his lap. “It’s not nearly as serious as anything you’ve got going on. Forget about it.”
That makes me roll my eyes. Echoing his earlier words, I coax him, "Forget you hate me for five minutes and tell me what's bothering you." His smile falters, replaced by a brief look of pain. He shakes his head, incredulous, as if the notion of hatred between us is absurd. "All right, fine," he relents, finally admitting, "I'm hungry."
"Hungry?" I can't believe his moodiness was just about food. But then again, this is Tommy. The man is as motivated by food as a starving dog.
“Fucking starved. But I shouldn’t snack. I have a tournament in the morning at San O.”
A tournament. I nod dramatically as everything clicks. He's probably been cutting carbs all week for the tournament, if he still does his pretournament diet.
I sit up and stretch before standing. If Tommy wants food, I was going to make him some. It’s the least I can do after bombarding his chill time before a big event. The guy takes good care of his body, but I know what to do.
"A little snack won't hurt. Protein, right?" I head to Sam's small galley-style kitchen to whip something up. Moving around in it is basically done with muscle memory. While I lived here, she and I did our best to learn to cook. Many nights were spent covered in flour, watching videos online about how to fold ingredients into soup and sauces.
"Uh, yeah, I guess," Tommy agrees, still a bit surprised.
I find eggs in the fridge, and as I get ready to fry them, I ask Tommy to toast some bread.
“I can’t have—"
"For me, dumbass. You're getting two fried eggs," I instruct. He laughs, hopping up from the couch to help. As I cook, he teases, "So, since when do you cook?"
I roll my head back and give him a side eye. “Bruh.”
He laughs. “You didn’t even have a kitchen in Costa Rica, just that old-ass hot plate.”
“Okay, but that doesn't mean I can't fry an egg. Get the damn plates," I snap even though he's spot on. No way will I admit this is a new skill. It would draw attention to our time apart, something I think we are both trying not to do. He does as asked, and soon I’m sliding his perfectly fried eggs onto the blue patterned porcelain. I grab my toast and head to the pantry next to the oven. Up on the top shelf, my special mixture is still waiting for me. I sprinkle a healthy amount over the buttery bread and head back into the living room.
I find myself gravitating towards him, this time choosing a spot much closer than before. A curious thrill flutters in my heart as I watch him relish each bite of the food I made. It feels a bit voyeuristic, yet I can't pull my eyes away.
Sitting next to him, a bittersweet acknowledgment dawns on me; I've missed Tommy more than I'm willing to admit. Our banter tonight has been seamless, playful, imbued with a carefreeness I hadn't realized I was yearning for.
When he polishes off his eggs in just a few bites, his gaze shifts hungrily towards my toast. "Smells good. What is it?" he asks.
"No way, mister. This isn't pro-surfer friendly," I say, holding my treat away from his reach.
