Finding West

4

STRANGER



Kat was right. Sometime during the day, perhaps during my long and painful walk into town, I became a different person. I found a sense of purpose, and then later, a glimpse of my true character. I was unsure of myself as I tried to make sense of what was happening, but I finally stopped fighting the inner voice and just let him have his say.

Turns out he—or rather, I—was a bit of an arrogant prick. A part of me was afraid that Kat would take offense and kick me out, but a larger part just wanted to see how far I could push her. And judging from the way she pushed right back, I'd say it was pretty far.

I had to admit: I liked her. She had some guts. And to find her working out in the metal shed, performing moves that most men would have trouble with, while her body was on display in little more than a sports bra made me all the more glad the town had been deserted.

I'd fully intended on leaving, but as I walked towards the police station I realized I didn't want to say goodbye to her just yet. I wanted to get to know the prickly woman who lived alone, who tried to pass herself off as androgynous but failed miserably, who saved strangers from certain death, lent them her father's clothes, then held them at gunpoint just for kicks.

I wanted to get to know her, to figure out what made her tick. So it came as a great relief when I had to turn around and trudge back the way I'd come.

And now here she was, face dewy with exertion, calling me an arrogant asshole because she got caught ogling my body. She was reckless and daring and just a little bit crazy. I wanted nothing more than to crack her mind wide open.

"I'll take that as a yes," I said, leaning against the back of the couch casually.

"Yes to what?"

"To whether or not you like my body." I chuckled when she pursed her lips and ground her teeth. I almost expected her to snarl. Instead she said, "I'm going to take a shower." She walked to her bedroom and came back out a minute later with a stack of folded clothes and a gun on top.

I strolled into the kitchen, standing behind the counter to make her feel more comfortable and leaving my hands flat out on the laminate surface. "I'll be right here the entire time. You have my word," I said. "Better yet, I can make some dinner. What would you like?"

She crooked one eyebrow. "You remember how to cook?"

I shrugged. "How hard can it be?"

"Well, there's a frozen pizza in the freezer. If all else fails, there's a can opener in that drawer and Spaghetti-O's in the pantry."

I looked through the pantry after she left. As the shower started running I studied her groceries, scratching my head at her unusual food choices. Here was a grown woman with a pantry full of premade food—mainly of the Chef Boyardee kind—and canned vegetables. And just when I thought she ate like a child, I found jars of truffles and other exotic kinds of food. In her fridge she had fresh vegetables and leftovers in plastic containers. In the freezer she had the frozen pizza and burritos alongside a rack of ribs, a side of chuck roast, and ground beef divided into neat little bagged packages.

I racked my brain, trying to remember a recipe—any would do—but couldn't come up with a single one. Either my memory was worse than I thought or I was just not the cooking kind.

Frozen pizza it was.

Figuring out her oven took a minute; I had a sneaking suspicion I'd never used one before in my previous life. After I slid the pizza into the oven I looked down at my hands, feeling the pads of my fingers and my palm. The skin was a little calloused but nothing that would indicate I was a man used to hard labor.