Chapter 13
1094 Words
Chapter 13
Raven
For a man who spent most of his time in his garage, I thought his place would be messy, like most men: clothes thrown over the chairs, dirty plates, tools everywhere, but I was wrong.
Jake’s place wasn’t fancy, but it was clean in a way that didn’t feel forced; it was well organized.
The couch against the wall was a deep forest green, soft enough that the cushion had dipped slightly in the middle like someone actually sat there often. A white blanket rested neatly on the arm of the cushion, as if someone actually used it.
A small wooden coffee table sat in front of it, nothing fancy, just there.
How impressive!
It all looked comfortable.
Everything about the place felt calm.
Annoyingly calm.
“Sit anywhere,” I heard him say, but instead I wandered around the room like I came to inspect it.
The window near the couch was open enough for the night air to slip through. The curtain moved slightly anytime the breeze passed carrying the aroma of this food across the room.
I still can’t believe he cooks.
My eyes drifted away from the window and wandered across the room again, that’s when I noticed the shelf.
That caught my attention immediately and I walked towards it.
It stood in the far corner beside the couch, tall and crowded, hard covers, paperbacks in different colors and sizes.
A small table was beside the shelf, it had a small lamp on it casting warm light over it, the kind of lighting people use when they want to actually sit down and read.
It has books on it, slightly crowded, some lay open, some face down like he has been reading them.
My fingers ran over them in a row before touching one, I slid one out slowly.
Maybe I shouldn’t have.
The cover was simple, nothing flashy but the title….. The quiet kind of man.
I scoffed under my breath. “Of course,” I muttered, flipping it open anyway.
The pages were slightly torn, as if someone had read them more than once. The writing was quiet, calm, and careful. The kind of words that linger on small things most people ignore.
My eyes landed somewhere in the middle page and the words pulled my attention before I could stop myself.
The world is full of men who think love is something they should conquer but the quiet kind of man knows better.
Quiet my foot!
What is this?
Men?
I hate them so much that I hate the fact that the word woman has man in it and now this!
I leaned my shoulder against the shelf and kept reading anyway.
A good man does not raise his voice just to be heard…
I’m done with this nonsense!
“It’s unrealistic.” I muttered under my breath.
I slowly closed the book with a soft thud and for a second I stared at the cover again.
“Don’t judge the early drafts,” I heard Jake’s voice from behind.
I didn’t realize he was watching.
“Too late,” I replied.
He smiled, “Be gentle.”
The men in his stories were patient, respectful , loving and thoughtful. The kind of men that listened more than they spoke.
I hate it.
“This is unrealistic,” I said. “It’s impossible,” I added immediately.
Jake glanced at me. “Which part?”
“All of it,” I replied. “Men don’t talk like that. They don’t think like that.”
He stirred the pot slowly, “Some do.”
“Rarely.” I blurted out.
“Still counts.”
I rolled my eyes and picked up other books, flipping through it with less interest this time but it’s the same thing, different stories. Same calm, decent men and their annoying titles as well.
What the hell is “A man who listens?” “Where gentle men stand?”
What the hell?
They’re animals clearly not gentle.
“You write men like they’re saints,” I said, trying so hard to hide my anger.
He turned off the stove and leaned against the counter. “I write men like they should be.”
I feel like punching his face God!
“You’re setting people up for disappointment,” I said, softer now.
“Or hope.”
I scoffed. “Hope gets people hurt.”
“You speak from experience,” he said.
I gently returned the book back to the shelf.
“I speak from reality,” I replied and walked away from him.
“Food’s almost ready,” he said finally.
I nodded and shifted my attention to the small dining table with my arms folded. The dining table was small, barely big enough for two people but it was clean.
Two white plain ceramics plates were already waiting like he was sure someone would seat across him. Beside them were forks placed carefully on folded napkins, a small salt shaker at the middle of the table like a permanent resident.
Jake moved forward to the table with the pot in his hands.
The smell intensifies immediately.
It smelled so good……..
Urghhhhhhh!
“I still can’t believe you cooked.” I muttered quietly.
He smiled at me briefly before settling the pot down, “people need to eat.”
Steam curled slowly from the pot as he opened it, it drifted across the small table.
I folded my arms tighter across my chest like that that would somehow make the aroma less tempting.
The smell wrapped up in my nose and my stomach gave out a loud sound.
Maybe I should have a bite to know what it tastes like!
He reached for the plates as he dipped the spoon inside the pot and lifted slowly as he poured a thick sauce on the plate.
“Sit.” He said calmly.
My eyes moved from the chair to the plate and landed back on him.
I hated how normal he looked, like a woman eating with him was something that happened all the time.
“You’re staring at it like it’s dangerous.” He said again calmly.
This is stupid.
This was a mistake.
I shouldn’t be here, I don’t belong in soft spaces.
I shouldn’t be sitting at a table with a man who cooks and writes stories about men who didn’t disappoint.
“It might be.”
I pulled out the chair slowly, if I was going to regret this, I might just get it over with.
- Writer
