“Of course,” she says and snatches a hunk of cheddar cheese from the shelf. She kicks the fridge closed with her slipper. “There’s nothing I want more than for him to be happy.”
“Me too,” I say holding up a hand. “See, we’re already making progress here. Okay, what else do we have in common?”
Silence suddenly thickens in the room. She slices a piece of cheese slowly.
“Are you thinking?” I ask her.
“Yes, it’s difficult.”
“It can’t be that difficult.”
“Then do you have anything?” she shoots back.
“You love animals,” I tell her. “And I don’t hate them.”
She slices a piece of cheese and lands her eyes on me. “I’ve heard you call Walrus a little bastard about thirty times.”
“With affection,” I say.
She pops the slice of cheese in her mouth. “So we have two things in common. With my calculations, we should have enough commonalities to be friends in about five-hundred and sixty-four years.” She reaches for her beer, and I don’t know what to say without putting my foot in my mouth.
I don’t want to give up on this, but I feel the air tensing around us. Awkward silence piling on. I tap my thumb ring on the kitchen counter to fill the quiet. She watches me for a second before popping the cap of her beer on the side of the counter.
“You’re supposed to disagree with that,” she says casually, placing the beer to her lips.
I stop tapping my ring. “With the five-hundred and sixty-four thing?”
“Yeah,” she nods and motions the bottle to me. “You’re supposed to sayno, Jane, we’ll be friends in a couple years.”
“I don’t have a fucking crystal ball,” I say.
“Okay, then just tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re wrong,” I say. “Because skeletons aren’t making friends in their graves.”
“Wow.” She shakes her head.
“Wow. What?” I can’t say the right things, and correcting course is just driving myself further into a ditch.
“Wow, you want to be my friend but you can’t even have any confidence that it will happen,” she says. “Not in five-hundred years. Not in two years. How about ever?”
“I have confidence in myself, but friendship is a two-way street,” I reply.
Her brows furrow. “So you think I’m the one not trying?”
Fucking hell.
“You’re right,” I say. “This is difficult.”
“Agreed.”
Something nags at me, and it’s not going to bring us any closer since it’s about Maximoff.I scratch my jaw. “So Maximoff doesn’t have a license anymore,” I say. “I thought the only reason you didn’t ride together was because of his driving.”
“It was,” she replies. I pick up on the past tense.
“But it’s not anymore?”
“You two don’t get much time alone…” She shrugs.
