You and Me (4 page)

"What kind of surgeon?" Grace asks, interest brightening up her blue eyes.

I answer immediately to avoid taking a bite. "Neurosurgeon."

"Is this that guy down the hall with the biceps of a Greek god?" she asks, setting the cookie down on the table as though she's too excited to eat. I nod, but narrow my eyes to silently convey I see what she's doing. She smirks. "Oh, he's yummy. Did you call dibs? Because you can't get greedy if you didn't call dibs."

Suddenly I'm not amused, but before I can say anything, Delilah chimes in thoughtfully, "He's not right for you. He's a fire sign."

I blink at her. "And how do you even know that?"

"I can just tell. He gives off intense fire sign vibes. But, he's too wrapped up in his own world, earphones stuck in his ears all the time. Never makes eye contact. He's disturbing his aura, blaring all that angry music. I could hear it in the elevator standing three feet away."

To Delilah, anything with any hint of tempo is angry music. But I make a mental note, because that's something I could suggest to Jackson next time I see him.

You're aura's all angry, man. It's the music you listen to disturbing your cellular structure.

I might even be able to fit a penis reference in there.

Grace cuts in. "She's saying that you must've made an impression if he finally got his head out of his own ass—"

"Well, he should've just kept it there," I say. "Where it belongs."

"That wasn't what I meant," Delilah says. "We only get one egg a month and we've got to be pickier about who can accidentally inseminate it."

I snort at this, even though I know my sister's serious.

"Oh, he can inseminate any part of me he wants." Grace grins at her own remark and I throw up my hands to stop them both.
 

"Okay, that's enough, you two. No one's calling dibs. No one's getting inseminated."

I hope.

Without thinking, I take a bite of the cookie and my eyes go wide.

"What is this witchcraft?" I ask. "This shit is
delicious
."

CHAPTER FOUR

Samantha

THE BELL OVER THE door jingles at my entrance. My eyes take a second to adjust to the relative dimness of the coffee shop, compared to the bright Saturday glare outside. The moment the door closes behind me, the city's howls of traffic, buses, and people all die away, and I'm immersed in a different world. One you wouldn't expect in the middle of Manhattan.
 

The Hideout is a tightly packed space filled with mismatched furniture and odd decor, so overwhelming with its character that I have to scan the room to find my roommates despite the fact there's not many people inside.

They sit near the back around an old, beaten down coffee table. I wade between furniture and past the faint smell of incense in the air, which is overpowered by the bitter smell of coffee beans. It's no wonder Delilah was drawn to the place, stumbling upon it while walking home one day. I would've passed it without a second glance, thinking it was an antique store instead of a coffee shop.

Delilah seems right at home, a satisfied smile on her face. Grace, on the other hand, looks at me with murderous eyes that scream,
I'm dying inside.

I settle down onto an armchair in front of them. Delilah hands me a cup of what I assume is coffee. I accept it without question and take a sip. The rich, creamy aroma hits me at the same time as the flavor explodes on my tongue.
 

I stifle a sigh.

"How'd it go?" Delilah asks.

I left them in a hurry first thing this morning to tend to a delivery.

"Holy shit, did that baby come out fast," I say, sitting back. "I've never seen anything like it. The woman's uterus is a cannon."

"
Boom. Here's your baby,
" Grace says.

"Exactly like that." I lift up the coffee cup in my hand. "This is incredible, by the way."

"It's the house blend. I'm in love with this place," Delilah says.

Grace tilts her own cup up to her mouth and mumbles, "If only it didn't smell like a giant foot."

"It's a barely-there foot smell," I say, and Delilah nods, seeming touched that I'm coming to the shop's defense. "It's more like stale coffee mixed with the slightest essence of feet. Unique and oddly enticing, when you take the time to appreciate it."

The bell over the front door chimes again and I turn to glance back at it. Jackson steps inside and immediately begins scanning his surroundings as though looking for someone. I turn around again and shrink in my seat.

"Crap," I say. "It's him. What the hell's he doing here?"

Delilah looks surprised. Grace hides her suspicious expression behind her coffee again.

I glare at my friend.
 

 
"
Grace.
" I hiss her name like it's a curse word. "What did you do?"

She shrugs, failing at her attempt to seem innocent. "I might have mentioned we'd be here. I might have mentioned that you might have mentioned him…a lot…" She mumbles the rest of her words.

Despite the low hum of chatter from the coffee shop patrons, I manage to zero in on Jackson's footsteps as he approaches.

Eyes wide, I make a hand motion to Grace and Delilah, silently signaling for them to pick up the conversation as though it never stopped. Delilah opens her mouth but fails to produce sound fast enough.

Grace tilts her head, missing my signal for a second, before she blurts out, "And that's why I don't shave down there anymore." Jackson clears his throat beside me. Grace looks up, and with the most disingenuous tone of surprise, says, "Oh wow, look who it is."

I turn, with what I hope is an air of complete casualness.
 

"Oh," I say, as though unimpressed by his gorgeous face and the fact that his crotch is at eye-level to me. "Hey, Jackson."

He gives both Delilah and Grace small nods. Grace can barely contain the smirk creeping across her face. Delilah, on the other hand, eyes Jackson from head to toe in quiet analysis. But Jackson's eyes are already on me.

"What are you doing here?" I ask.

"I came to take you to lunch."

A moment passes as he peers down at me with a glint of amusement in his eyes. He smiles and my resolve begins to thin. I think for a moment and try to keep my face neutral as an idea occurs to me.

"You won't give up, will you?" I ask.

"Not until you let me take you on a date."

"One date and you'll leave me alone?"

"One date and you won't be able to leave
me
alone."

I bite out a laugh, and my face warms under a smile. I hate he can do that, make me laugh when I'm trying not to. Without breaking eye contact, I say, "Do you guys mind?"

Not missing a beat, Grace says, "Nope."

Delilah's response drags out a bit more, "I guess not."

"Lets go," I say to Jackson as I get to my feet. "I have a place in mind."

It's amusing to see the relieved confusion that comes over his handsome face, his surprise at how easily I gave in.
 

The guy really has no idea what I have in store for him.

We head out on foot, the early summer afternoon conspiring against my efforts to shake off the excited flurries in my belly, the swirls of anticipation I feel whenever I'm around this man. There's a sweetness in the air, a mixture of corner stands and food trucks and other scents of summer just around every corner.
 

My stomach grumbles and I want nothing more than to stuff my face with some hearty food, but I'm on a mission and I'm nothing if not committed. I lead him a few blocks down and we come to a stop in front of a small restaurant, sandwiched between a deli and a laundromat.

It's an inventive vegetarian eatery, serving concoctions that look bizarre and intimidating, even to me. Images of the dishes are proudly displayed on the windows.

"This is it?" he asks, eyeing the pictures hesitantly.
 

"This place? This place is my favorite lunch spot," I lie.

I wonder if he knows I'm calling his bluff. I wonder just how far he'd go in his insistence to take me on a date.

As though in answer to my unspoken question, Jackson opens the door and gestures for me to step inside.
 

"I'm sure it's fantastic," he says.

Part of me sinks in disappointment because the hunger in the pit of my stomach isn't playing along with my ruse. I'm not very adventurous when it comes to food, not in the least. I like to eat simple and clean. Though I've never actually eaten here, my sister has, and she's described the over the top, one-of-a-kind plates in enough detail to make me suspect Jackson will find them crazy.

We sit by the windows and the hostess takes our drink order and hands us a pair of menus before walking away. Jackson's face falls slightly when he eyes the menu, as though he had been holding out hope that there would be something he would like. He catches himself and smooths his expression into polite surprise. I'm not sure if he means to look comical or not, but he does. There's a wild laugh building in me at the fact that he hasn't commented on my choice of restaurant. As if a menu consisting solely of items along the lines of radish spaghetti and caramelized fennel is something he sees all the time.
 

There's undeniable humor punctuating the silence between us as we try to decide what to order. Everything on the menu is a bizarre twist on the traditional vegetable. There's a grilled onion salad served with fermented black bean dressing. A fried broccoli dish with smoked cabbage. Mushrooms with maple butter. Lettuce wrapped Brussel sprouts. These are the sort of dishes the average person would only consume for a shot at winning a large sum of cash on a national television show. I've been a vegetarian most of my life and I've never heard of vegetables served like this.
 

The waitress comes up to take our order, a beady eyed girl who can't be older than eighteen. Her smile seems to widen when she looks at Jackson, and I don't miss the way her gaze drags down his body like she'd like nothing more than to set him on the table and have him for lunch. I'm not prepared for the white streak of possessiveness that thunders through me. He might not be mine, but this girl doesn't know that.

Jackson clears his throat, a sly smile in his eyes. "Any recommendations?"
 

I bite my lip, unprepared. "Yeah…" Tucking my hair behind my ears, I search the menu adamantly as though looking for something I know is there. Kale…there has to be something with kale here. I'm not a fan of kale. I've always managed a vegetarian lifestyle just fine without it.

"Oh, here it is. My favorite, kale soup. So, so good."

Jackson eyes me with only a hint of sarcasm, then looks at the waitress, and says, "Sounds like we'll have two kale soups."

"I can order for myself," I say, and the waitress, who was already turning to leave, swings back around to face us.

Indignantly, I scan the menu, feeling the pressure of both pairs of eyes on me, and not being able to choose from the large array of shit I wouldn't want to eat, anyway. Finally, I set down the menu and say, "I'll have the kale soup, thanks."

Jackson laughs quietly.

"Oh, you think this is funny? Just wait until your soup comes."

He crosses his arms, the long sleeved shirt he's wearing tugging around his biceps. And as he sits back, his gaze travels over me, bathing me in blue hues that make my head swim.
 

"Why are we here?" he asks.

"You wanted lunch. This…this is my favorite—" I falter at something in his eyes, a whisper of
gotcha.

"Cut the bullshit, Samantha."

My stomach growls, angry and loud, as if it can no longer stand to be ignored. This whole thing was me calling Jackson's bluff, and now? It looks like I've called my own bluff, too.
 

"You nearly gagged when ordering your
favorite
soup," he says, using air quotes around the word 'favorite'. "I'm going to go out on a limb and guess that you've never eaten here and that you don't even like kale. Because who the hell likes kale? Tell me, why are we really here?"

I look over to the kitchen doors where our waitress disappeared, the same doors she'll soon reemerge from carrying two bowls of what might as well be stewed grass.

Hunger, it seems, is my kryptonite. I need some food in my mouth before I pass out. Or worse, fold in. But I don't fold. Not ever.

"We're here because you need to know what you're getting into if you want to date a vegan witch."

"Are you vegan," he asks.

"No. I'm vegetarian. I'm sure it makes little difference to you."

"I get it," he says. "You're upset about what I said. I honestly didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

"But you meant what you said."

"What?"

"Admit it. You think holistic medicine is a joke."

"What do you want me to say, Samantha? That I don't think rubbing leaves on your face is going to cure skin cancer? Or swallowing some garlic will shrink a tumor? Well, yeah I did mean what I said. I'm not into all that holistic nonsense. I've had patients who made their diseases worse by prolonging the start of treatment in attempts to cure themselves. All I know is what I've been taught, what I've seen with my own eyes."