Page 113 of Reno

I laughed. “You got take out.”

He looked up. “You bitch when I cook.”

I meandered to his side and kissed him. “If you hadn’t rode like a bat out of hell, maybe I’d be the one cooking.”

He checked his watch. “By my watch, it’s going to be starting in thirty-seven minutes. We need to hurry.”

“What’s going to be starting?”

“Meteor shower.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yep. This one’s once every seventeen bajillion years or some shit.” He lifted a wad of salad, attempted to put it on a plate, and dropped half of it on the floor.

“Can I help you?”

“I’d prefer you didn’t.”

I sighed. “Please?”

He glanced at the floor, smirked, and then looked at me. “Can I do something nice for once?”

“Fine,” I said. “I’m going to the bathroom. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Use the front one.” He chuckled. “Someone dropped a bomb in this one.”

“Someone?”

“Don’t know who it was,” he responded, slinging salad as he spoke. “It sure smells like shit, though.”

I went to the guest bathroom, washed my hands, and checked myself in the mirror. I looked the same as always, but I now saw myself differently. In Reno’s presence, I was convinced I was beautiful.

He reminded me of it daily.

So much that I now believed him.

I grinned and went back into the kitchen. I looked at the mess on the floor, the mess on the island, and then at Reno.

“I’ll get it when we’re done,” he said.

I sighed. “Okay.”

He handed me a plate and a glass of wine, and then grabbed his. “C’mon. I don’t want to miss it. Supposed to be one shooting star every fourteen seconds or something like that.”

I glanced at my plate. The pizza looked like he’d brought it home in his pocket. I shrugged it off and followed him toward the back door.

We went out onto the deck and took a seat side by side. Facing the sky, Reno lifted a piece of pizza to his mouth and took a large bite. “Amazes me that crap like this happens.”

I took a bite of salad. “Me, too. When does it start?”

He checked his watch. “Twenty-eight minutes.”

We ate the mangled pizza, talked of our days at work, the motorcycle he had on order at the Harley dealership, and of the upcoming poker run. In no time, we were finished with our meals, and enjoying the wine.

“The food was really good,” I said. “Where’d you get it?”

“Primo-something, up the street. Goose told me about it. Italian kid owns it. He came here from Jersey.”