Finding Mayhem

by Layla Frost

Ward took the seat next to me and pulled the container of spaghetti in front of him. “Can’t believe you were eating this shit.” I had no clue why I felt the need to defend my crappy lunch, but I did. “It’s not bad.” “It’s worse.” “It’s fine.” He scooped up a mix of veggies and noodles clumped together. Using the same fork that’d been in my mouth, he took a massive bite. His face instantly contorted, and I thought for sure he’d spit it out. He didn’t, but he did make a big show of forcing the mouthful down before chugging half his beer. “Fuck, that was nasty.” “You’re so dramatic,” I told him with my own dramatic eye roll. “No wonder you were trying to smell my cooking.” “Haze is the one cooking,” Judge pointed out. Ward waved away the valid point. “Semantics. I did the hard part.” He used the fork to lift the sad, soggy veggies. “Why the hell would you torture yourself with this shit?” I patted my stomach. “Balanced diets are important for pregnancy.” “And flavor isn’t a balanced diet?” “It has flavor.” “Bad.” He tossed the container into a nearby garbage bag. “The flavor it has is bad.” Before I could think up a comeback—or a lie because Ward was absolutely correct—Haze turned off the grill. “Come get it before I knock off a rack of ribs myself.” Ward stood. I was about to follow when he put a hand on my shoulder. At my questioning look, he said, “Relax, I’ll fix it. Want yours to go?” I should’ve said yes. I had chores to get back to if I wanted my house ready for work o...