20. Chapter 20 #3
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 because you’re interested 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 if you like 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’ll both enjoy. 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.
The mofongo . 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 the mofongo ? It’s not as good as my abuela’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 of mofongo . “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.”
Mind his germs? Puh-lease. I wanted all his germs, preferably given mouth-to-mouth. This was realistically the closest I’d get to that.
“Oh, uh” —I cleared my throat— “I don’t mind. I’m more worried about infecting you with my germs.”
His eyes darted to my mouth so fast I wasn’t sure it really happened. “I don’t mind, either.”
And then he held out his fork with some mofongo on it, like he was going to feed me. Holy Crackerjack and pumpkin pie , was I dreaming? Whether I was or not, I wasn’t going to let this chance go by. Maybe it made me a bad person but cut a girl some slack.
Before he could change his mind, I swooped in like a pelican and practically inhaled the mofongo .
You know, gracefully . It was about as romantic as unknotting shoelaces, but I’d take what I could get.
Even if that meant pretending that this was a date after all and the mofongo was actually a chocolate-covered strawberry or something.
Holy jalapeno poppers , I needed to get out more.
He blinked at me before erupting in laughter. Not the reaction a girl wanted from the guy she was pretending she was on a date with, that was for sure. Talk about a humbling experience. “I mean, I expected you to grab the fork, but that works, too.”
I chewed the mofongo slowly, allowing time for my soul to leave my body and journey across the world far, far away from Max. The mofongo was… different, but not bad. I wasn’t crazy about the texture, but the flavor was pleasant. “It’s all part of my method.”
What the actual cheese balls did that mean?
Apparently my mouth decided I wasn’t suffering enough, though, because it continued speaking. “It’s the best way to try new foods. Helps me get into the right frame of mind, like putting myself in your shoes, but instead I’m putting myself on your fork.”
Oh. My. Hot dog. Stop. Talking.
Was it too late to fake a bathroom break?
On second thought, I’d already made it through my glass of water, so I wouldn’t have to fake it after all. A small win for tiny bladder-havers worldwide.
“It’s good, though.” I slid out of the booth. “I’m gonna make like a pod and pee. I’ll be back after I remember how to socialize.”
I scurried to the restrooms before he could get a word in edgewise, fueled by my bursting bladder and overflowing humiliation.