When You Least Expect It

5

When the casserole was finished cooking, I waited for it to cool down and then tucked it away in a plate. Why couldn't Miles make something more simple, like cookies?

I ate a bit myself and then headed down the street. Dad said their house was on Fletcher Street. Their house, according to Dad, was number eleven.

My heart began to beat for no apparent reason. When I arrived, I stood outside and took in my surroundings. It was a fair-sized house with a god-awful picket fence. Still better than our house, though. Our house very well could have been liveable decades ago, but now the yellowing lawn was overrun by tall weeds that had not been cut in months. The wooden fence wrapped our house was crooked, chipped and barely hanging on its own. It was as if Mom had taken the very life out of our house when she left.

Genevieve Gellar called out to me as she walked by, her blonde hair swishing behind her. "They have a cute son," she said. To be frank, she was the bane of my existence. It seemed like she had made it her life's mission to despise me with every fiber of her being since I began dating her cousin.

She must have given them a little welcoming gift, too. Carson probably had enough food to feed a remote village. In this town, it was basically a rite of passage to be welcoming to any new residents.

I considered fleeing and lying to Dad, but decided at the last minute that I should just get it over with, so I crossed the porch and knocked the door that smelled of dust and age.

It instantly flew open, as if the person on the other end had been anticipating visitors. Carson, dressed in grey sweatpants and a red hoodie, stood at the door. Despite the fact that it was almost three o'clock in the afternoon, he appeared to have just awoken.

"Can I help you?" He reeked of cigarettes and a smidgeon of cologne.

I just stood there staring at him for a few moments.

He gave me a once-over with a raised brow.

I pressed the hot plate against his chest. I managed to sputter out, "Um... we cooked this for you."

"More food," he remarked with a tight-lipped smile, his tone less than impressed. I could sense he was probably sick of people knocking on the door every five minutes. That made me want to die inside.

I cleared my throat, trying to regain composure. "Yeah, you know, just a little welcome gesture. Thought you might be hungry."

He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms, and a faint smile played on his lips. "You do this for everyone in the neighborhood?"

I chuckled nervously, feeling the weight of his scrutinizing gaze. "Well, not exactly. You just seemed... special."

Carson raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. "Special, huh? What makes me so special?"

I faltered for a moment, searching for the right words. "I mean, you're new in town, right? Thought you might appreciate a home-cooked meal. It's a thing around here, if you haven't noticed. Plus, my dad practically forced me."

"Appreciate the effort, Max." His eyes locked onto mine, and I couldn't help but feel a warm liquid spill in my stomach.

"Well, enjoy the food," I stammered, shifting on my feet. "And, um, welcome again. If you need anything, you know where to find me."

Carson's smile deepened, a subtle warmth in his eyes. "I'll keep that in mind. Thanks, Max."

He took the plate and vanished inside, leaving the door ajar. I tried to sneak a glimpse inside, but my efforts were in vain. Assuming Carson had gone back to his room, I turned and walked away. As I strolled down the street, the sound of heated arguments reached my ears, coming from Carson's house. It sounded like Carson was engaged in a shouting match with someone.