She blew out a breath, sending the loose hairs around her face flying. "I don't remember," she said, tossing up her hands. "But I did tell you to sit down."
"You also said something about sweating trees," I added. "Right? Did I imagine that?"
"It's an inside joke," she answered, turning back to the stove.
"And here I was, thinking I'd been inside you," I replied.
Stella dropped the spoon to the countertop as she backed away and bent at the waist, shaking with laughter. She wrapped her arm around her middle and wiped tears from her cheeks with her free hand. "I'll give you that one, Cal. I'll give it to you," she said. "But if you don't get your ass out of this kitchen in the next five seconds, I'm going to walk this pot of sausage and peppers upstairs to Stremmel. The bread too. Is that what you want?"
I took a big step back, effectively leaving the small kitchen. "No, ma'am," I replied. "I don't want you sharing any sausage with Stremmel."
"How do you do this?" she asked, her gaze trained on the sauce in front of her. "You're dying of the flu but also throwing out obscene comments like you're angling to take a bite out of my ass tonight."
"Not dying," I said through a cough. "Nah. I'm fine. Probably shouldn't eat your ass for a few days."
"Sit," she barked, holding back a laugh.
As I flopped down on the sofa, I heard her chuckle in the kitchen. It was a tiny, tiny moment. A single heartbeat. But it was the best thing I'd experienced in a long time. Me, sick and pathetic while the most beautiful, talented, generous woman in the world made spicy peppers and bread. The best.
It wasn't the domesticity of it. It wasn't about her cooking or caring for me.
It was the attachment. The one we shared.
Stella handed me a bowl. "Only because it's shaping up to be a good game and I'm starving," she said. "But if you get me sick, I'll send the raccoon after you."
"The caffeine junkie? Nah, he's my pal."
"I'm sure he is," she replied. "He's everyone's friend except mine."
"What about the beaver?"
She gave me a narrow-eyed glare while her lips twisted into a smile. "What about it?"
"Another friend of mine," I replied.
"Mmhmm." She nodded, laughing. "I bet."
She tucked herself into the opposite end of the sofa, her phone seated on the armrest and her bowl balanced on her lap. She didn't do any of the things I might've expected but that was how she operated. Never what I expected.
She stayed there long after we finished eating. She stayed, narrating the plays on the baseball game better than the commentators and cursing the players like they'd insulted her lineage. She stayed, handling the dishes during commercial breaks.
She didn't tidy the apartment or wrap a blanket around my shoulders when another chill hit me, but she stayed. I might've anticipated those moves from a different woman but not Stella. And I didn't miss them. I wanted her heckling the refs and dropping juicy insider details about the players, the managers, the team owners. I wanted her to stay.
But then I looked down at my empty bowl, the one without a drop of leftover sauce because I'd sponged it all up with that bread, and I realized this was the first and possibly last time she'd cook for me. Because I could lose her. All this time, all this waiting could end with her choosing someone else. Choosing no one. After all, she didn't belong to anyone.
I loved her and I could lose her.
25
Stella
It took Cal a full week to shake off the flu. That translated to more than a full week since getting naked with him. Not that I begrudged that time—no one wanted to visit Pound Town only to cough up a lung during the visit. But it served as a little timeout for us, an "are we good here?" pause.
And yeah, we were good. Mostly.
On the morning he'd promised to meet me at the trail and resume our regular walks, he slept right through his alarm. And my texts. Calls too. And a full minute of me banging on his door.
That man.
I'd never devoted this much time and energy to another human being since…ever. I'd never done this. I'd never cared this much. Not even when I was engaged—twice!—to be married.
I wasn't sure what I thought about all this yet. I wasn't sure how I felt about this newfound sensation of caring about another person to the point of my heart lodging in my throat and every terrible scenario possible flashing through my mind when he didn't answer that door right away.
And that was just a minute. A minute. Plus all the minutes on the frantic drive to his apartment from the pond. Plus the minutes of waiting for him at the pond. Plus the weight of caring for a person as much as I cared for myself.
I didn't know what I thought about that and I wasn't quite ready to sit down and sort it out. But he was on the mend now and busy gushing about a new surgeon at his hospital. A lady surgeon. A lady surgeon who taught him some snazzy new tricks today.
"She's really talented," Cal continued, awe tinting his words. "I'm amazed how her little pointers make such a big impact on minimizing scarring in major procedures."
"Great, great," I said, forcing a smile. What was wrong with me? Honestly. He was allowed to work with women. It wasn't sexual for him. Much like understanding my reaction to him sleeping through his alarm, I didn't want to unpack this one. I just didn't want to know what I'd find.
"I'm having Shap lead a skills lab session for my residents. They need as much of her teaching as they can get. Hell, I need it."
This was what I'd avoided all these years of scheduling men and snipping attachments before they took root. Misplaced, illogical jealousy. A sense of competition with a woman who probably wasn't trying to seduce Cal by doing a really good job at a surgery thing.
Stellllllllla. Seriously. Get a fucking grip on reality and chill the fuck out.
"You'd like her," he said, plucking a lone piece of sashimi off my plate. "She doesn't put up with any shit."
"As she shouldn't," I said. Then, with a hearty laugh, "It comes with age, you know. Most of us don't know any better when we're younger or we're not in a position to do anything but shovel someone else's shit. But the older I get, the more willing I am to walk away from shit-shoveling situations. I didn't know how when I was younger. Didn't know that I could." I reached for my drink, held it up but didn't bring it to my lips. "I bet your surgeon friend knows what I'm talking about. I bet she's put up with so much shit she goes a little crazy if anyone tries sending it her way. I bet she's only allowed to take no shit because she's good at her work."
"She is good at her work," Cal conceded, shooting a glance at his beer bottle.
Probably easier to look there than my crazy eyes but goddamn it, I hated hearing about women who were strong and tough, the ones who didn't fuck around. Women didn't need anyone rubber-stamping their strength, and we didn't need anyone calling it out as rare or unique.
"And you admire her work," I said. "You want your students to learn from her."
"I do. I want them to think about the cuts they make and the ways in which they close them up, and I want them to be as patient-centric as possible in that thought process," he replied, hitting me with a quick smile before rummaging for more food. I couldn't decide if this was another incident of Cal eating everything in sight because he was roughly the size of a black bear or him avoiding me.
Then I realized it didn't matter. I cared about this man and he cared about me. I could tell him difficult things without hiding behind good girl manners. I didn't have to be a smiling face that said the right things, kept the uncomfortable topics to myself. A man who cared about me didn't need—or want—that kind of people-pleasing, peacekeeping behavior. A man who cared about me wanted my raw opinions and my ugly spots and my needy, wobbly moments. He didn't want me filtered.
"Then you have to use your position as the dude on the magazine cover to make sure your residents see her as an effective surgeon and not a bitchy surgeon," I said. "And it's the dude on the magazine cover who can do tha
t. Make it about her abilities and knowledge, Cal. Don't make it about her not putting up with any shit. And when you hear them referring to her as the bitchy surgeon—because they will—tell them how much they're missing out on by relegating her to that corner. That their inability to cope with a woman who doesn't wrap her requests in honey means they're focusing on the wrong things and they're passing up an opportunity to learn."
He stared at me a moment, his expression even. Then, he said, "I can do that." He popped a piece of California roll in his mouth, nodded. "I still think you'd like Shap. You could probably trade stories about people underestimating you."
I hadn't planned on testing him like that. If anything, I was more concerned with corralling my ridiculous, outrageous, need-to-get-my-head-checked jealousy. But it was a test—and he passed.
"We all start off taking some shit," I said, softening my tone as much as possible, "and then doing better. Learning the lesson. Now that I'm older, I can definitely say I've learned the lesson."
"The only one getting older here is me," he said. "You could pass as twenty-something, Stel. I'm shocked you don't get carded. I'm just waiting for the day someone asks if I'm your—I don't know—uncle. Or something."
I took a sip of water. Set the glass down. Went for it again. My god, Cal as my uncle. I needed to wash that thought away fast. "Honey, you're not that much older than me and you look"—I gestured toward him, circling my hand at his upper body—"you're fine as fuck."
He ducked his head as his cheeks heated. Ears too. God, I loved it when he blushed all the way to his ears. Like an elf, if elves were huge and obscene. And dressed in a suit made for remotely detonating ovaries. No tie, shirt open at the collar. Fine as fuck.
"Good to know," he said.
For absolutely no good reason, I announced, "My birthday is coming up."
Cal glanced up at me, his eyes round and curious. "When?"
I sucked in a breath as if I was preparing for a plunge into cold water. Maybe I was. My birthday never included the men in my life, not since my fiancé. There'd been no reason to include them. We didn't have the kind of relationship that extended to birthdays, holidays, or anniversaries.
"May twenty-fifth," I replied.
He blinked at me, a slow smile pulling at his lips. "That's—that's this weekend."
"It sure is."
He stared at me as if I wasn't connecting the dots. "What do you usually do to celebrate?" he asked. "What does Stella's Natal Celebration involve?"
"Well, we don't call it Stella's Natal Celebration to start," I said, laughing. "I don't do much. I'm not over-the-top about birthdays."
"Neither am I," he replied. "Are you all right with nearing the top? Approaching but not going over?"
I barked out a laugh, pressed my hand to my chest. "I guess that would be fine," I said. "My family always has a birthday dinner at my parents' house. It's been that way since we were kids. We'd get to choose the menu and no one could object to our choices because it was the one day we could have whatever we wanted. My older sister Sophia always wanted something ridiculous. Fancy and ridiculous. She's always been obsessed with the finer things. One year, she requested beef Wellington. I think she was eleven, maybe twelve. She'd read about it in a book and insisted my mother make that for her."
"How'd that go over?" Cal asked, laughing.
I shook my head. "My mother had to ask everyone in the neighborhood if they had a recipe because it wasn't part of her usual Sicilian-northern Italian-Dominican fare. It was fine. It was fine and we ate it but I hated Sophia's birthday dinners." I lifted my drink, drained it. "Serina, my younger sister, always wanted cheeseburgers and tomato soup from a can and Funfetti cupcakes. To this day, she'd choose grilled cheese over anything else."
Cal smiled at me a moment, his gaze warm and his eyes shining. "Well?" he asked eventually. "What's your birthday meal?"
I returned his smile with a shrug. "Nothing crazy," I replied. "You should come. Come to my birthday dinner at my parents' house."
"I'd love to," he said. "Count me in."
Really, Stella. Really. Way to take it all the way there and back again.
Cal was on call tonight and—predictably—had to return to the hospital not long after finishing dinner. But it was good. I needed to call my mother. She'd kill me if I brought a guest to dinner without adequate warning and five days barely qualified as adequate in her book.
"Hi, Mom," I sang when she answered. "Is it okay if I bring someone to dinner this weekend? For my birthday?"
"What do you mean, is it okay?" she asked. If her tone could be trusted, she was totally fucking mortified that I'd asked. She'd also be totally fucking mortified if I hadn't. There was no winning this one. "Are you fuckin' kidding me? Yes, you're welcome to bring someone. Is it Flinn? That boy needs a family unit, Stella. I've told you before. He needs a damn family. Or Tatum? She's a sweetheart. She's always welcome. You don't have to ask. You know that."
"Not Tatum. Not Flinn," I said. "Someone new. His name is Cal. He's a doctor. Surgeon, actually."
There was a long pause. Long enough for my mother to walk out of the house, down the street, and into oncoming traffic. Not that she'd do that but what the hell was she doing?
Then, "George? George! Goddammit George!"
In the distance, I heard my father saying, "Just kill it with a broom, Christina. I'll be there in a minute."
"Not a spider, George," she yelled. "Stella's bringing a boy to dinner."
It didn't matter that Cal was very much a man. Holy fucking fuck, he was all man. But in my parents' book, any guy I brought home was a boy.
"What? What about Stella? Where is she? She's bringing what? She's here?"
"She's not here," my mother shouted.
I held the phone away from my ear. The driver shot a curious glance at me over his shoulder. "Sorry," I whispered.
"On the phone, George. She's on the phone," my mother yelled.
Chances were good my mother was standing in the middle of the kitchen. That was her spot. At any point in the day, my mother could be found standing there, trying to remember why she went into the kitchen. Chances were also good my father was in the basement. That was his spot. He kept an old television down there—the kind with rabbit ears—and every copy of Sports Illustrated published since 1975. He also had a punching bag he never touched and a recliner that would one day digest him into the dark abyss of that chair.
"What does she need?" he yelled back.
The problem with their kitchen/basement spots was the acoustics. He couldn't hear a damn thing down there and she believed he wasn't trying hard enough.
"She's bringing a boy to dinner," my mother called.
"A what?"
"Dammit, George. She's bringing a boy home."
"What's wrong with her? Where is she?" he asked.
"She's on the phone," Mom repeated.
I heard another extension pick up, probably the old wall-mounted phone near the washer and dryer in the basement. It was a terrible place to take calls because the washer rattled relentlessly and the dryer—which was always fluffing something—smothered the area in white noise. "What's happening?" he asked.
"I'm—" I started.
"Stella's bringing a boy home for her birthday dinner," she cut in. "Can you believe this? I looked outside just now and I don't see any pigs in the sky so I don't know what's going on."
"You better not be pulling one over on us, Stella," he warned. "This sort of thing isn't a joke."
I laughed, not certain I understood the unrestrained shock from my parents. "I'm not joking," I replied. "I called to make sure it was all right to bring him and—"
"Oh, would you stop it with that?" Mom snapped. "We'll need the folding table unless we seat Toby with the kids in the kitchen."
"Good place for him," Dad muttered, referring to Serina's husband. Nice guy, Mets fan. Couldn't get past that one.
"And we need to get some good wine. Not the shitty kind you usua
lly buy," Mom continued. "What kind of wine does he like, Stella? Red or white?"
"Men drink red wine," Dad argued.
"Enough of that," Mom chided him. "I'm asking Stella."
"Red wine is great," I replied. "Or beer. Honestly, you don't need to worry about Cal. He'll be fine with whatever you have."
"I'll get red wine," Dad said. "Beer too."
"You don't need to do anything different," I cautioned. "Really. He'll be fine."
"Stella, please," Dad replied, his tone heavy.
"You need to cut the goddamn grass," my mother announced. I assumed that was directed at Dad. I didn't cut grass. The small patch of lawn at my house was handled by a professional and I preferred it that way. "We should get those flower boxes filled too."
"Really, guys. It's not necessary. Cal's not going to base the dowry on the flower boxes. It will be the size of the meatballs."
"Oh, okay. I'll have to make them bigger," Mom replied.
No one had ever been this serious about meatball size.
"Oh my god," I whispered. "That was a joke. I'm going to be thirty-six and dowries don't exist in today's society and the flower boxes do not matter at all. Sure, get the good wine because Sophia won't complain about it all night and yeah, make those meatballs as big as a planet because that sounds awesome but please don't do anything different on account of Cal coming to dinner."
There was a pause filled only by the distant sound of the eighties music my mother played in the kitchen. Then, "Stella Marie, we are not putting up with your comedy routine," she snapped. "Now, your father and I need to discuss the fuckin' front yard. We'll talk to you later. Love you. Goodnight."
And with that, my parents hung up on me. But I'd bet anything they were still talking on the phone, a dial tone vibrating between them as they spoke from inside the same house. Because I was a glutton for punishment and still confused about my parents' reaction to my guest, I opened a group text with my sisters.
Before Girl Page 20