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I didn’t make it for him. Maybe, subconsciously, I did. Gumbo isn’t my favorite dish. Hell, it’s not even in my top ten. So, why is it the only dish I can make successfully without burning? It’s the single meal I know how to make because it was the favorite of my boyfriend.
I shrug. “There’s extra if you want a bowl.”
He does, and I go back to my spot on the sofa and turn the TV back on. He plops down on the other side of the couch with a full bowl.
“This still the only thing you know how to cook?” he asks.
“Yes. For some reason, I haven’t been able to master anything else without burning it.”
He chuckles. “Perhaps you shouldn’t admit to burning shit to anyone else for a while.”
I smile. “Good idea.”
He takes a bite and groans while pointing to the bowl with his spoon. “I appreciate you making sure your landlord is fed … with his favorite meal.”
I roll my eyes with a laugh. “Oh, shut up. I made it for myself. I’m sure you had plenty of foodon your date.”
“Food sucked. This is better. Everything you made was always better than anything I could pick up at a restaurant.”
“Yeah, right. You do know everygood luckcupcake I made before your games was burned or tasted like shit.”
“Yet I still ate them, didn’t I?”
“To be nice and not make me feel bad.”
“Yes, to be nice, but also because I loved that you took the time to do something special for me. You didn’t give up. You kept trying to make them better with each game, and I loved that. I missed those bitter-ass, burned cupcakes after you left.”
“I’m sure you’ve met someone who doesn’t burn everything she touches.”
“I haven’t met anyone who doesn’t burn shit as well as you.” He leans in. “And, honestly, I haven’t been looking either.”
My lips pull up, ready to smile, but the air drifts my way as he goes to take another bite.
“J’adore,” I whisper. “Dior.”
His spoon drops into his bowl. “Huh?”
“You smell like her.”
At least he screwed someone with decent perfume taste.
The reminder of him with another woman ruins the moment, ruins the memories that were rushing into me like waves. He’s questioned me about whom I’ve been sleeping with since he moved back, but he thinks it’s okay for him to do whatever he wants.
I shake my head. “How’s that for a double standard? Don’t you dare question me about my sex life anymore.” I want to snatch the gumbo from him and pour it over his head. “I’m going to have sex with whomever I want to have sex with, too. If I didn’t have to work tomorrow morning, I’d have a collection of men here, an orgy, getting screwed in every position possible while hanging from the ceiling.”
A hard laugh interrupts my rant. “Keep lying if it makes you feel better.”
“I’m not lying. I’ve had experiences,plentyof experiences, with other men.”
He leans forward to settle his bowl on the table and slumps down in his seat, looking defeated. “Well, that ruins a man’s appetite. I’d appreciate your not going into details, please.”
“Why are you here?” I question.
His arm stretches along the back of the couch, settling behind me. “I have no fucking idea.”
He needs to leave. He needs to stay.
Jesus, what do I want him to do?
