Page 60 of Cream and Punishment
I snorted but stopped myself short before covering it up. I wasn’t convinced there was anything on God’s green earth that could spoil my opinion of him, but the fact he cared about my opinion of him in the first place made my stomach somersault. “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that, Max, but I promise I’ll keep an open mind either way.”
He studied me for a moment before releasing a long breath and leaning back in the booth. “When Vicky and I broke up, she pointed out that the only thingIseemed to push for in our relationship was getting married. Everything else, I just went along with whatever she wanted.” He shrugged sheepishly. “She didn’t mind that for a while, and I was content with whatever, so nothing else mattered enough to disagree about.”
I nodded my understanding, my brow furrowed. He didn’t have a say in anything else about their relationship? What curtains to buy, what side of the bed to sleep on, how to divide and combine their assets—nothing?
“Yeah, I know,” he chuckled, reading into my facial expression. “Anyway, I realized after I wasn’t in a relationship anymore that I didn’t know whatIliked.” He offered an uncharacteristically shy smile. “I’d gone along with whatever someone else wanted for so long that I’d forgotten what I’d do ifIwas the only person I had to worry about.” He grimaced and leaned in, his voice lowered conspiratorially. “I didn’t even know how I liked my eggs. Sad, right?”
I didn’t reply. I couldn’t unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth if I’d wanted to. What must that have been like, constantly disregarding his own preferences—not to keep the peace like I’ve been guilty of before—but because he was so easy-going he didn’t care enough to form an opinion? He’d probably viewed it like he viewed opening doors. Going with whatever his fiancée wanted was a way to show his love for her. He’d be content with whatever she chose anyway, so why argue?
That wasn’t a relationship, though. It was ownership.
And if she hadn’t broken things off, how long would they have lasted with that dynamic? Would Max have remained content with that, or would he have finally exploded when it became too much? Would he have resented her?Himself?
“Anyway” —Max leaned back, casual as a cucumber, as if he hadn’t just broken my heart a little— “I also realized that working out was the only hobby I had forme. And we have to workout for at least an hour every weekday for the job, anyway, so it didn’t feel like ahobbyhobby, if that makes sense? You know, something you do purely because you enjoy it.”
“Yeah, I can’t imagine enjoying it,period, but I understand.”
He laughed softly. “You’re not alone in that. I didn’t love it at first, either, but after seeing how much it improved my mental health, it became more than just a way to test my body’s limits and get stronger.”
Mental health? I pursed my lips in thought. I wasn’t sure what mental health requirements there were for FBI agents, or whether certain conditions would disqualify them from field work like soldiers. Even if Max didn’t have any chronic conditions, I couldn’t imagine seeing what he did or constantly working to stop the dregs of society without it taking its toll.
His gaze lingered on my mouth before he continued. “So I made a resolution this year to try a new potential hobby every week. It seemed like a fun but achievable way to discover what I enjoy doing.”
“That makes sense.” It still hurt to think about, but I suppose that was another perk of being single for so long. I was my only company more often than not, so I already knew what I liked. Unless I consulted the demons in my closet, there wasn’t anyone else around to defer to. “And now, knowing this, I take back what I said earlier about competitive baking shows.”
“What? Why?”
I folded my arms and smirked. “From here on out, I hate them. They’re the worst. But if you want to try them on your own and only becauseyou’reinterested in them, by all means.”
He arched one eyebrow, unimpressed with my turncoat ways.
I sighed. “Look, I know we’re not on the same level as you were with Vicky or anything, but I don’t want you going along with whatever I want because you don’t have a preference or because you’ll be content with whatever happens, okay?”
He looked at me like I’d suggested we dropkick a kitten. “I’ve gotten a lot of practice learning what I like by now and speaking up about it. I want you to share your interests with me as well. That’s important in… friendships.”
I wasn’t sure if he hesitated before the word “friendships” because he’d caught on to my crush, but it definitely did its job of reminding me where we stood. And, don’t get me wrong, being friends with Max was wonderful. But it sure messed with my head whenever I had to fight the desire to kiss him.
“All right,” I conceded, “in that case, we can try out the baking shows, and ifyoulike them, we can watch more. But if they’re not your favorite, I promise there’s something in the vast world of streamed television that we’llbothenjoy. I have plenty of me-time to watch my baking shows.”
So. Much. Me-time. Most days, I enjoyed it. Other days, I’d started talking to the invisible roaches I was convinced lived under my oven.
“Sure, friendships are about sharing interests with each other” —I caught Cendy’s eye as she brought out two steaming plates of food and quickly wrapped up my train of thought— “but they’re also about compromising. Both parties have to give up some ground. Meet halfway.”
He took a sip of water, his scrutinizing stare never leaving me until Cendy sat the plates in front of us.
The heavenly scent of garlic, butter, and rice made my mouth water. Max’s meal had a different aroma, unfamiliar but not unpleasant. Next to his fried pork niblets sat a mound of the strangest mashed potato-look-alike I’d ever seen. Themofongo. Instead of being white and creamy, it was a tannish-yellow color with little specks of white and mahogany, and out of its center, a dried strip of plantain stuck out like a candle.
After exchanging a few words with Cendy, Max openly watched me as I tried my food. I nearly missed my mouth because of it, but after a few false starts, I managed to get the rice into my mouth without spilling it all into my lap. I hummed with satisfaction as the food hit my tongue. It was different, but delicious. Slightly nutty for some reason, and I liked it.
Apparently satisfied with my reaction, Max bit into his own food.
After a few minutes of companionable silence, I wiped my mouth with my napkin and swallowed my bite of perfectly plump shrimp. “This is really great, Max. Thank you for inviting me to tag along.”
“Thank you for coming.” He grinned, dark eyes twinkling like fireflies in the night. “Want to try themofongo? It’s not as good as myabuela’s, but that would be nearly impossible, anyway.”
“Sure. If you like it, it must be good, right?” I fumbled for a clean utensil to keep from contaminating his food with my germs. Butter knives weren’t sharp enough to cut tongues, right? I’d probably be fine.
He laughed as I eyed the partially desiccated mound ofmofongo. “You don’t need to use your knife, Dekker. You can dig in with your fork, or, as long as you don’t mind my germs, you can just use mine.”
