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At least, I didn't think he did.
“Now, unless you've developed a passionate attachment to something in your refrigerator, I'm ordering food. Cinder said you need to eat before you take the painkillers he gave you, and I have no intention of explaining tomorrow that I failed because you were emotionally attached to a frozen pizza.”
“I have food.”
Max looked at me, looked toward the kitchen, and apparently decided the claim required independent verification.
He opened the refrigerator, stared inside for several seconds, and finally glanced over his shoulder. “You have mustard, beer, three bottles of water, and something in a plastic container that I'm not prepared to identify without protective equipment. I'm beginning to think your definition of food may be considerably broader than mine.”
“It's Chinese.”
“How old?”
I considered the question long enough that Max closed the refrigerator.
“We're ordering, simply because there isn’t time to order groceries and cook them.”
“You cook?”
He ignored me which I took as a yes, and my body warmed without permission. There was something unexpectedly intimate about watching another person stand in my kitchen and decide what I needed to eat. Max asked what I wanted, rejected anything's fine as an answer, and eventually ordered enough Italian food to feed most of our forward lines before beginning a search for plates.
“Cupboard above the sink.”
He opened it and paused when he discovered there were two.
I waited for the inevitable question, but Max merely took them down and put them on the counter.
This was starting to drive me insane.
“You're doing it again.”
He turned toward me, and apparently my frustration was obvious enough that I didn't need to explain what I meant.
Max rested one hip against the counter. “I'm assuming we're back to the part where you're annoyed because I'm not interrogating you. I'm happy to participate, but you're going to have to give me some guidance because this is an unusual complaint.”
I rubbed a hand over my face, wondering why I was making this so difficult when he'd done exactly what I'd asked him to do. “I don't know what I expect you to ask. I just know you're seeing all of this and deliberately not saying anything.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
“Because I think you expect people to make you explain yourself.”
The answer took all the irritation out of me.
Max glanced at the two plates on the counter before looking back at me. “I can see this isn't how somebody on your salary would usually live, and I'm not stupid enough to believe you've accidentally forgotten you're rich for the last several years. Whatever the reason is, it's yours. If you ever want to tell me, I'll listen. Until then, I'm going to feed you and try very hard not to insult your couch.”
I stared at him.
“My couch is fine. It was two hundred dollars,” I added defensively.
“I'm sure it was worth every penny.”
I laughed and immediately regretted it, pressing a hand against my side while Max's expression changed from amusement to concern.
“You're an asshole.”
“Apparently that's safer for your ribs than being charming, so I'll work with it.”
