“Then I have to make this count.” He rounded to my front, loweredhis brows and stared me straight in the eye. His playful demeanor had vanishedand there was only protective, angry Devin, always playing the hero. “I swearto you, if that guy ever says something like that to you again, I’m notapologizing when I punch him in the throat.”
“Brooke wouldnothave said that,” I chided, playfullypoking him in his abs, and I couldn’t ignore how firm they were, how defined.
“Yeah, well, I’m not Brooke and I’m telling you, I’m going toknock the wind out of that guy the next time he says that shit.”
“Okay, you’re cut off.” I tried to get around him to put one of theBlu-rays in, and he grabbed my arm to stop me.
“Kylie, I’m fucking serious. He’s a piece of shit, and if that’sthe type of guy you insist on being with, then fine—that’s your choice. But ifhe says something like that again whenI’maround, it’smychoiceto make sure he’s never able to talk to you or anybody like that ever again.”
“Fine,” I said through gritted teeth, “and the next time the girlyou’reseeing brings over a chunk of dry meat and calls it meatloaf, I’m going to tellher to come back when she’s learned how to cook,okay?”
At that, Devin threw his head back and fell to the couch, laughingall the way. “Oh my God,right? That was the shittiest meatloaf I’veever had.”
I put one of the movies into the Blu-ray player and dropped ontothe couch next to Devin, settling into his side as one tattooed arm wrappedaround my shoulders. I clenched his threadbare Foo Fighters t-shirt between myfingers and breathed him in.
Cedar and spice.
Comfort and home.
He kicked his bare feet up onto the coffee table, tipped histemple toward mine and asked, “Will you make me arealmeatloaf onThursday?”
I couldn’t help but smile. “With mashed potatoes and green beans?”
“Fuck yes,” he groaned, throwing his head against the back of thecouch as Edgar Allan “Eddie” Van Halen, jumped onto his lap. Devin scratchedhim behind the ears, bringing the black fur ball to a rumbling purr. “Now, hitplay. I need to see Neve Campbell kick some ass.”
?
The sun streamed, with an irritating dose of cheer, through the openwindow of my bedroom. I groaned, struck with immediate regret after staying upuntil two in the morning, watching horror movies with Devin.
If only Nate had pissed me off on a night where I didn’t have workthe next morning.
I climbed out of bed and stumbled my way out the door, to findDevin sitting at the table, with his gym clothes on and a fried egg sandwich inhis hand, as he scrolled through his phone. He looked up at me and nodded hischin in my direction with a chipper “good morning, sunshine,” and I flipped himthe middle finger.
“There’s a sandwich for you in the bag,” he said, gesturing towardthe center of the table, and I grumbled a barely coherent “thank you.” “You’dthink after all these years of living with me, you’d be more of a morningperson by now.”
“I willneverbe a morning person, Devin.” I grabbed thepaper bag from Dick’s Diner and dropped into a chair. Sitting at the tableinstantly reminded me of the night before, the things Nate had said and done,and I pulled my sandwich from the bag with a burst of aggression. “FuckingNate.”
Dev looked up from his phone again. “What’d hedonow?”
“Nothing. I’m just thinking.”
“You know what happens when you think,” he said, pointing hissandwich at me. “You wind up pissed off for the rest of the day and you take itout on the people who don’t deserve it. Like me, or Eddie.”
I rolled my eyes as I took a bite. “I never take it out on thecat.”
“Really?” He cocked his head, eyes wide. Incredulous. “So, should Iremind you of that time you werePMSingor some shit,and I brought home sweet and sour chicken instead of sesame? Eddie was justsitting there at your feet, innocently begging, and do you remember what youdid?”
I leaned my forehead into my other hand. “God, Devin, why are youso fucking annoying when I just wake up?”
“Well, your sleep-deprivation is obviously having an effect onyour memory, so,” he said, standing up, “let me remind you of the aggressivemanner in whichyou shook your chopsticks at him. Do youremember that? The guy was so distraught, he wouldn’t jump on the counter for aweek.”
“I hate you,” I mumbled, rubbing my fingertips against myforehead.
“I mean, if you need to get your frustration out, I’m willing to sacrificemyself, but please, leave the cat out of it.”
I looked up at him. “Kindly fuck off, please,” I said, regainingthe strength in my voice after a night of little sleep. But looking at him,with his backward baseball hat and sleeveless t-shirt, showcasing two solidarms of muscle and ink, I couldn’t be annoyed, and my lips curved into a smile.
“God. Go shower. You smell,” I lied, just to get him to walk awayand let me stew in my I-hate-mornings mood.
