“No.”
It was too fast. Automatic. I just looked at her for a minute. “What did you eat at the reception?”
She kissed her teeth. “Food.”
“What food?” I pressed, ignoring the sarcasm.
Silence.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Theory.”
She shrugged. “I wasn’t hungry.”
“Nah, for real. People kept bringing you plates. Why didn’t you eat?”
She gave me a look like she wanted to throw something at my head. “Why you interrogating me? Why you care?”
I had a lot of ways to answer that, ways that would let her know I saw through the performance she put on for her family.You looked like you might pass out when you stood too long. Your hands were shaking when you thought nobody saw. You’re carrying all that anger and hurt, and your body is paying for it.
She would shut down. So, instead, I said, “Because I’m your husband. And you need to eat.”
That word—husband—made her flinch like I’d hit her. I wasn't feeling that shit.
“I can take care of myself,” she argued.
“I know you can. That’s not the point. I’m going to take care of you anyway.”
Theory’s mouth opened, ready to challenge me, then closed again. She looked away, like she was trying to think of a way to continue her protests.
“I’m fine.”
“You not,” I said. “Come on.”
I didn’t wait for all her reasons why she shouldn’t. I walked back downstairs, then toward the kitchen. I heard her footsteps, slow and reluctant, but she followed. The way I was out here fighting for my life, that was a win.
The kitchen was bright and immaculate, marble counters and stainless-steel appliances she was going to admit she loved when she wasn’t so pissed off. Personally, I liked the fact that the pantry was big enough to hide a body.
I washed my hands and rolled my sleeves up. I could feel her standing behind the massive island watching me like she expected me to pull out a gun. Instead, I just pulled out ingredients. Thanks to Andrei, I quickly found rice, salmon, asparagus, and all the seasonings my heart might desire.
My wife looked at me suspiciously. “What you doing?” she asked.
“Feeding you.”
“I told you I’m not hungry.”
“I heard you. Sit down anyway,” I replied.
She didn’t move. I looked up. “Theory.”
Her eyes met mine, challenging. “You don’t get to command me.”
“I’m not commanding you. I’m insisting. There’s a difference.”
“Boy—” she exhaled and tried to hide a smile.
Another win. My own smile was visible. She slid onto a stool and glared at me just to prove she wasn’t afraid of me.
Good. I started cooking. This was definitely about to be another victory. I was a man of many talents and cooking was one of them. I seasoned a pot of water for rice and rinsed the grains in a strainer until the water ran clear. Then I grabbed a salmon fillet, patted it dry, and seasoned it with lemon zest, black pepper, smoked paprika, and a little dill. I heated the panuntil it was just right, oil shimmering. Theory watched like she didn’t expect me to know what I was doing.
