Reunion: You Knew Lizzie Was Coming Back, Right?

Back at home, I pull open the Affection Multiplier, desperately hoping that my ploy had its intended effect.

Scarlet Najbreit, Score: 15

I breathe a sigh of relief. I was scared my score would plummet downwards, cognisant of the fact that bodyguards, sent by Scarlet, could come busting down my door any second and beat me to within an inch of my life. So up ten points is good, very good. I can be happy with that.

No need to worry about my door being busted down…

I jump when a sharp knock on my door suddenly sounds.

“Hey, the light’s on under the door. You’re back!” I recognise that feminine voice. Fuck. It’s Lizzie.

“Uh… yeah, I am,” I say, realising that lying’s not going to get me anywhere. “You came by earlier?”

“Yeah, and you weren’t here. I wanted to stop by and say sorry,” she says through the door. “And um… I brought a gift for you, to, you know, make up for things.”

I’m tempted to just ignore her, but some fucked up part of me tells me to open up the door, and so I do.

“Hey,” she says, dressed up nice and holding a pan by her side.

“Hey,” I say back, and then I catch myself. “Why are you holding a frying pan?”

“I thought it would make a nice gift for you,” she said. “I didn’t see any pans last time I came around, so you know, I did the thoughtful thing and got you one.”

After seeing Scarlet again today, I think I know why I’ve never been invested in any of my relationships. The ladies in my family, the girls that I grew up with, are beautiful, accomplished, sexy, damn-near-perfect women. In contrast, the girls that I go out with are… like Lizzie. But she is perfect, I remind myself, and so I sigh and step to the side, letting her in.

“Thanks for the pan. You need to use the bathroom?” I ask her. She looks at me funny, but nods, and locks herself in there a moment later.

I rush to my laptop, fiddle with it for a few seconds, and then go check out the frying pan that she got me. It’s a cheap non-stick thing. I don’t know why she thinks I wouldn’t have a frying pan; it just happened to have been stuffed in my cabinet alongside my other Earthly possessions when she visited.

When she comes out of the bathroom, I’ve torn the wrapping off the pan, and am testing its heft.

“Good pan. Love the material,” I say, not meaning a word of it.

“Listen, can we talk for a bit? I wanted a chance to say sorry and for us to be able to really work things out.”

I wasn’t aware that we were an us, but I nod. “Of course. Hey, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t I make dinner for the two of us, using this brand new pan that you’ve gotten me, and then we can talk over dinner?”

“Yeah, that sounds awesome!” she says. “Can I help?”

“You can boil the water and put the pasta in,” I say, pointing her to the pantry. From my fridge, I get out the tomato sauce and two eggs. She seems to deflate a little as she realises precisely what dinner is going to be. I’m mildly offended. This is an entire meal I’m giving up for her! I’m going to starve a day earlier at this rate.

We go about making the pasta. As a chef, I am pushed to my technical limits. It is not easy to heat sauce in a pan while beating eggs on the side. In fact, it’s such an intellectually demanding task that I end up spicing things up by sneaking pinches of paprika and chilli flakes into the tomato sauce when Lizzie isn’t looking. It’s surprisingly difficult; she is very intent on watching her pasta boil.

“So I was thinking,” she says, “that we look pretty good together. And after I kind of… went off on you yesterday night, I really appreciate that you… didn’t take it back out on me.”

“It was the only reasonable thing to do,” I say, shrugging. The conversation we’re having is an uncomfortable one, but it’s necessary.

“I just want to make sure—you think we’re good together, right?”

Fuck, this woman wears her insecurity like it’s a jacket.

“Sure,” I say.

“Okay, thanks,” she says, giving me a quick glance. “I think… pasta’s ready.”

I pass her two plates to heap the pasta onto, and then drown the noodles in the very poor man’s Shakshouka that I’ve made.

There’s no dinner table. We sit down to eat on the side of my bed, plates balanced on our knees.

“Can I take your hand?” she asks. I glance at her, and before I can reply, I feel her soft hand slip into mine. “Bless this meal, dear Lord, and let the depth of my thanks to You be known, for it is You who has guided me back to Markus’ home tonight. We thank you for the food, and for the company, and in Jesus’ name we pray, Amen.”

She’s cute when she’s got her eyes scrunched up like that, but I’m damn hungry. As soon as she pulls away her hand, I’m wolfing down the pasta, shovelling it into my mouth with no thought for etiquette. Bite after ravenous bite goes down, until half the plate is gone in a matter of seconds. Lizzie stares at me, and I eventually pause, fork hanging mid-air.

“Something up?” I ask, stuffing the fork into my mouth.

“Uh… no,” she says, turning to look back at her own plate. She hasn’t touched it yet.

She puts a fork into her spaghetti, twirls it around, and slowly lifts it to her mouth. I watch her out of the corner of my eye. She takes a hearty bite, masticates for a second, and then she coughs hard, going bright red in the face.

“Something the matter?” I ask, feigning concern.

“Spicy…” she coughs. “Really… goddamn… spicy… You… you know I hate spicy food!” She’s grown redder in the face. It takes me a second to realise that it’s not just the heat—she’s getting angry. “Fuck you! I can’t eat this!”

“Huh,” I say, putting my plate to the side. “You want me to make your another?”

“Fuck that, why would you make it spicy in the first place?” Her voice is loud, borderline shouting, and I raise a hand.

“I thought I’d spice things up,” I shrug, but the dark look she shoots me tells me that the joke was a mistake.

“You’re on fucking thin ice RIGHT NOW,” she yells. “Give me an EXPLANATION!”

“Look, Elizabeth, you know…” My voice trails away as that snaps her. She suddenly stands up, the plate spilling onto the ground, spilling red sauce over the floorboards. The snarl on her face sends a frisson through my back, and then she grabs the frying pan off the stovetop.