Funny Feelings (53)

And then the avatar currently operating Meyer’s body gets on all fours and begins to crawl towards me. I’m unable to look away. “W-what are you—?”

He folds his hands in front of him, sitting up on his knees. And then he juts out his lip in the saddest, most pathetic pout I have ever seen. “Please forgive me,” he flutters his eyelashes.

I can’t help it, I snort nervously. He’s so ridiculous and unlike himself. “You must need food. You’re acting loopy. Why didn’t you eat at the party?”

“It’s Hollywood, there’s never enough food at those things,” he replies before he resumes his pouting and phony lip quivering.

“Fine.” I move to get up, and he wraps me in a hug from his knees, almost knocking me back over. My hands flap at my sides, his cheek against my belly button. And instead of patting his shoulders like a normal hug from any other normal human in this position, my hands both go to his head, cradling it, nails lightly scraping against his scalp. It’s a lovers embrace, not a friendly one. It’s so at odds with how we normally are together, hovering like opposing magnets, unable to touch—actually avoiding it. He went and flipped on me sometime today and forgot to warn me. I feel myself cracking.

I grapple for a segue, any segue. “Uhhh I’ll only make the s’mores if you cut a deal, though,” I come up with.

He’s frozen, we’re frozen like this, his arms crossed and resting just above my very clenched behind. Ovaries can’t make sounds internally, right? Like how a stomach growls? His ear is pressed so close to them. I can practically feel my eggs screaming in tiny cartoon voices, ‘We’re in here, sweet virile man! Save us from this would-be spinster she-devil! Let us not waste in vain!’ “Yeah?” he replies.

“You take a selfie with me, and you let me cut your hair,” I say. Maybe that will cover me as far as why my hands seem to be touching it in such a proprietary manner. Hazel hates his hair in this longer, scruffier style anyway. I personally think he could pull off a bowl cut if he wanted to so it makes no difference to me.

“Are you plotting shaving my head or any other nefarious act of revenge?” he asks warily, his deep timbre vibrating through my core. I swallow.

“No,” I feign a laugh, my own voice coming out a full octave higher, “just clean it up a bit.”

“Alright, I can do that.” He takes a deep breath and I panic-part away from him, shuffling back to the kitchen.

He follows me, continuing to hover while he inspects every ingredient and measurement that I combine. He’s clearly suspicious, stopping mid sentence to say things like, “okay wait, how much of that?” and “how long did you mix that then? And that went in first?” He leans back into the counter on his palms, head angled my way while he continues to watch me work, as he shares anecdotes from the party, some of the drama from the show that he’s neglected to apprise me on. Tales about entitled celebs and their insane demands. I’m more interested in the smaller, pettier gossip, though. The set designers clashing over a wallpaper, the sabotage and food stealing wars. He nods to the bowl with a frown when I’ve stopped working, when I turn my full attention to him in shock after hearing how one sound tech paid for Ubers for a week just so he could leave his car in the designated spot reserved for his work nemesis. “Alright, alright. Patience, My-guy.”

I distract him just enough to maintain my secrets. I ask him to go move my clothes to the dryer for me so I can quickly add the browned butter I’ve discreetly made. And when I pull them out of the oven finally, I ask him to open a bottle of wine so I can grab the flaky salt. I grab a healthy-sized pinch before I close the cupboard and start to sprinkle.

“What the hell is that?” his voice sounds, inches from my ear. In my panic, I throw the salt over my shoulder. “Fee?” he growls. I turn around slowly. There’s flakes of salt stuck in his beard and the front of his hair. “What. Is. That?” My jig is up.

“It’s just salt, okay?”

“You never included that on the ingredients list.”

“No?”

“No!” he parrots.

“Well you’d think you would have seen it on the bars themselves, Meyer, it’s not exactly hidden,” I say with an undignified eye roll.

“You’ve been keeping this from me!”

“It’s salt, Meyer! Not exactly groundbreaking.” When I meet his eyes they're crinkled, suppressing a laugh.

“You didn’t want me to have the secrets, did you?” he teases, squinting at me. “You wanted me needy, begging for it, didn’t you? You’re high on power.”

Sweet salmonella, why does that idea make my stomach drop to my toes? I shove a bite of the dough I’d reserved into my mouth to hide my shock.

“Aww, Fee. Don’t worry, I’ll still be desperate for your treats, whether or not I have your secrets.” I go white hot and cold in an instant.

“Y-You don’t need to. You can absolutely make them on your own now. Save me the trouble. It was an honest mistake Meyer,” I try and shrug, all false bravado.

“Sure,” he replies playfully.

“For real, have you checked your blood sugar? You’ve been especially weird all night.” I point the spoon at him accusingly and he laughs, taking a massive, gooey bite.