“She got a new cook last year. He’s amazing. He started doing lunch specials every day and now it’s almost impossible to get a table in this place,” Julie answered, reaching for another donut.
“Huh. Well it’s good to see some things have changed, I guess,” I mused, sipping on my coffee.
“So. You’re living with Flynn,” Julie began, looking at me over the rim of her mug. Julie knew about Flynn and me. She had been surprised, like everyone else had been. But she had never really commented on our relationship, knowing it wasn’t her place to do so. She could express her opinion about all sorts of things, but not Flynn.
“Yep,” I said.
“How’s that going?” she asked.
“Fine,” I replied shortly.
“Just fine?” Julie pressed.
“Yes, just fine,” I lobbed back.
I didn’t want to admit that I was finding it harder than I thought I would. That sharing a space with Flynn took an endless amount of patience that some days I worried I didn’t have.
I loved Flynn. More than anything. I wanted to make this work. But I couldn’t help but wonder if I hadn’t fallen prey to delusional fantasies about our happily ever after.
After seeing Dania at the store, I had gone home and made lasagna. My mood had soured considerably by that point.
I had spent almost two hours prepping and cooking. When Flynn had come home he didn’t say anything about the effort I had put into dinner. And when we had sat down, he picked at his food, barely eating.
“Aren’t you hungry?” I had asked him.
And Flynn in his abrupt manner had pushed his plate away from him. “I don’t like lasagna,” he had said.
I sat there, stunned, hardly able to believe that all of my hard work hadn’t meant anything. The food in my belly made me feel sick and I couldn’t eat anymore.
I had told myself I shouldn’t be upset. That he didn’t mean to hurt my feelings. The truth was Flynn had no idea how hard I had worked. He didn’t realize that when he said he didn’t like lasagna, he might as well have thrown the plate across the room.
And in true Ellie McCallum fashion, I had turned my hurt feelings into anger. I had gotten to my feet and grabbed his full plate and dropped it in the sink.
“Well don’t fucking eat it, then,” I fumed.
“Don’t cuss, Ellie. It doesn’t sound nice,” Flynn had scolded, sounding put out.
I had turned around, my face hot, my eyes wet. “You know what’s not nice, Flynn? I just spent the last two hours making that damn meal and you don’t even try eating it! You just say, ‘I don’t like lasagna.’ Well screw you!” I had yelled, scrapping food off the plates into the trash.
I vigorously scrubbed the plates trying not to scream. Or even worse, cry.
Then Flynn was behind me. He carefully put his hand on my back and I flinched at the touch.
“I didn’t know you worked so hard on dinner. I should have eaten it. That wasn’t very nice, was it?” he had asked.
I turned off the water, my shoulders sagging.
“No it wasn’t, Flynn. When someone goes to the trouble to make you something, you should at least try to eat it and be polite,” I said, suddenly tired. Flynn still had so much to learn about how to communicate. So did I. Neither of us had ever learned the right way to talk to people.
“You’re really mad at me, aren’t you?” Flynn had asked.
I sighed, finally turning around to look at him. He was frowning, his green eyes troubled.
“Yeah, I am,” I admitted.
Flynn’s hand clenched into fists but he didn’t rub them together the way he once would have. He held himself rigid, as though waiting for an attack.
“I don’t like it when you’re mad at me,” he had said.
