Wrists

They were talking and laughing and asking me about my day and trying to make me feel apart of their family, but all I could focus on was the plate of noodles drenched in Alfredo sauce sitting in front of me. Every time the breeze was right, it sent a big waft of its aroma stench straight towards my nostrils, setting my stomach off in a frenzy. Elijah was watching me intently—I could feel it burning a whole in my face—but I couldn’t bare looking at him. I could only imagine the look he’d have in his deep blue eyes; no way could I look him in the eyes.

“So,” Elijah’s mother, Stephanie, spoke up after a hefty bite of her pasta. “What do you want to do when you graduate?”

I took the tiniest bit of the pasta that I could without seeming suspicious and stuffed it in my mouth. I chewed slowly—secretly savoring the taste of Alfredo sauce and the sting of heat on my tongue—and swallowed the bit. It slowly traveled down my esophagus and to my stomach. I willed the guilt away and took another small bite. “I want to publish novels.”

“Publish?” Elijah’s father, Steven, looked pleasantly surprised. He held Elijah’s deep blue eyes and May’s soft golden hair. “Wow—so you’re a writer? Sounds like great money to me!” He let out a happy laugh, wrinkles forming near his eyes mouth.

“It does, doesn’t it?” Stephanie was the next to let out a joyful giggle. They both acted like stupid drunks; it was, in an odd way, entertaining to watch. “I used to want to be a writer.” She paused to take a sip of her wine (surprise, surprise). “But then I got stuck as a middle school math teacher!”

“I hated middle school,” Elijah entered the conversation. “That was the place where demons and egotistical assholes were born.”

May rolled her eyes in agreement. “Don’t forget all the girl drama. I wanted to get out so bad. High school was a little better.”

I smiled, eyes still glued to the food in front of me. Elijah’s large hand soothingly rubbed my lower thigh, an attempt to calm me down. It only worked for a little while—Stephanie’s next question sent me back into a spiral of anxiety. “Not hungry, dear? The pasta’s great!”

“A little,” I mumbled, picking up another forkful and stuffing it in my mouth. Oh my gosh it tasted so good. Food tasted so good—I missed it so much; so, so much. I avoided May’s concerned glance.

“He never really liked Alfredo,” Elijah quickly said. He gave me a polite half-smile. “I convinced him to get it anyway, though.” His eyes glowed in a mysterious, sexy way; I was finding it difficult to look away.

“That’s a pity,” Steven took a sip of his own wine. “I’ll eat it if you don’t want it, son. But you do need a little more meat on’yer bones!” He laughed innocently. “Y’should get’em a membership t’yer gym, Eli!” He laughed innocently again, but this time Stephanie joined in.

Elijah forced a laugh. “Maybe,” he teased.

The little pasta I devoured was slowly crawling back up my throat.