Page 49 of Burn the Script

NOW

Saturday, February 4th

Miguel pats his belly while admiring the remnants of alfredo sauce on his plate. “I can’t believe you made this yourself.”

Making sauce is surprisingly easy when it’s poured straight from a jar. What’s not surprising is how I’m incapable of taking my eyes off him. Since he stepped through the door, the house has felt like our private haven again.

We would’ve eaten outside, but chilly rain infringed on the remake of our first date. The Thai restaurant going out business was another unexpected roadblock, hence the detour to homemade chicken alfredo and salad.

“Maisy talked me through it. Did you know she could cook? Like, really well. With vegetables and everything.” I gather as many dishes as I can carry and haul them to the sink.

Spinning in the chair, his body tracks my movements. “Our Maisy? The Maisy who thinks donuts are the sixth food group?”

“The very one. Apparently, she’s been keeping secrets from us.”

“What?! She lived next door and watched us barely survive on almond butter and cereal for years. I’m never speaking to her again.” He whips out his phone, thumbs pounding on the screen, then slams it down with force. “There. That should teach her a lesson about withholding information from me.”

My fingers tighten around the scrub brush. “Did you block her number?”

He shrugs. “Maybe.”

While his self-righteousness is adorable, his flippant attitude about blocking someone, even in jest, rankles me. I’ve often wondered if his decision to cut me off was an easy or hard one to make, but now I’m afraid I may not like the answer.

He blows out the candle and gathers the remaining dishes before joining me at the sink, eyeing my jerky arms while I scrub sauce off a plate.

“Are you upset that I blocked her?” he asks.

“I know how it feels to be cut off without warning, that’s all.”

The running faucet fills the silence before Miguel nods once and opens the dishwasher. “Okay. I’ll fix it.”

As I clean the plates and utensils, he loads them. Since I’d rather focus on the present than the past, I change the subject. “How’s the collective doing?”

“It’s doing good. We submitted designs for an apartment building in Long Beach for permitting. Now we’re on to the next project. It’s nice pooling resources. More productivity, less work hours.”

With a huff of laughter, I shake my head and shut off the water. “You’re lucky. I’m giving eighty hours, minimum. But I’m doing what I love, so I have no complaints.”

“You never do.”

The wet fork caught between our fingertips drips into the sink. Each droplet reverberates on the stainless steel like a gong. For a few tense heartbeats, neither of us moves, until Miguel releases the fork with a heavy sigh.

He hops onto the counter, feet dangling while he dries his hands with a towel. The gloomy weather outside has infected our good mood, and the raindrops trailing down the glass keep his gaze from me when he speaks.

“I used to wish you’d complain about something so I wouldn’t feel like the only nag in our relationship.”

I place the fork in the dishwasher and take the towel from him. “If there was anything to complain about, I would have.”

There’s pity in his half smile. “No, you wouldn’t. You’re a peacekeeper, Graham. If you could write a script for the world to follow, all the characters would get along. There wouldn’t be a lick of drama. Any problems could be resolved with a kind word and a hug. But real people do have problems. Life is messy, and it hurts. That’s why you keep your mouth shut when something bothers you. You can’t stand causing anyone discomfort or pain.”

“I try not to let things get to me.”

“I know.” He also knows this conversation bothers me, but there’s no sense in stating the obvious.

I witnessed a lifetime’s worth of disagreements while living with my parents, and none ended in a peaceful resolution. If an unhappy couple can’t work through their differences, they should cut their losses and go separate ways. Otherwise, everyone around them continues to lose, especially their children.

Wiping down the countertops will hopefully send a signal to Miguel that I’m ready to move on from this topic. This is First Date 2.0, and I refuse to spend what’s left of our evening dredging up the pain points from my past.

He offers no reprieve. “There had to be something I did that drove you nuts. I’m not perfect, despite what you say, so be honest. Tell me one thing that got under your skin.”