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“No, but I think about it a lot. Especially when I’m with you.”
“I thought we were supposed to be mad at each other.”
Morelli shrugged. “I don’t feel mad anymore. I can’t even remember what we were fighting a
bout.”
“Peanut butter.”
“It was about more than peanut butter.”
“So you do remember?”
“You called me an insensitive clod,” Morelli said.
“And?”
“I’m not a clod.”
“But you admit to being insensitive?”
“I’m a guy. I’m supposed to be insensitive. It’s my birthright.”
I was pretty sure he was kidding. But then, maybe not. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll take half of it back. You’re not a clod.”
The waitress brought our food and Morelli took out his credit card. “We’ll take the check now, and we’d like a to-go box.”
“Since when?” I said.
“I thought we decided to go home.”
“I can’t go home. I have to go back to work.”
“Doing what?”
“Doing what I do. I’m working at Rangeman.”
“At night?”
“It’s complicated,” I said.
“I bet.”
I felt my eyebrows squinch together. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I don’t trust him. He’s a total loose cannon. And he looks at you like you’re lunch.”
“It’s a job. I need the money.”
“You could move in with me,” Morelli said. “You wouldn’t have to pay rent.”
“Living with you doesn’t work. Last time we tried to cohabitate, you threw my peanut butter away.”
“It was disgusting. It had grape jelly and potato chips in it. And something green.”
“Olives. It was just a little cross-contamination. Sometimes I’m in a hurry and stuff gets mixed into the peanut butter. Anyway, when did you get so fussy?”
“I’m not fussy,” Morelli said. “I just try to avoid food poisoning.”
