Page 67 of Sweeter Than Fiction

“Hey, no judgment here. Dessert is clearly the best part of any meal.”

She eats a little bit of everything except for the sushi. When I ask her why she hasn’t touched it, she gives me a squeamish look.

“Never had it. Not sure if I’d like it. I’m sort of weird about textures.”

“Fair enough,” I say popping one of the rolls into my mouth.

“I’m a little surprised that Mr. Nebraska is eating raw fish.”

“When I first got to New York, the owner that I’m doing work for offered to take me to dinner. It caught me off guard when he took me to a sushi restaurant. I didn’t want to be rude and say I thought it was weird. So, I dove right in—never thought I’d actually like it.”

When Abby’s finished eating, she goes into the kitchen to warm up some kind of heating pad thing and grab a couple of ibuprofen.

“I could have gotten that for you,” I tell her.

“I know. Because you are quite literally perfect. But it’s good that I got up for a minute. I’ve been on that couch curled up into a ball all day. I didn’t even do any work.”

“When I texted you earlier, why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well? I could have brought you something to help.”

As she sits back down, her shoulders shrug. “I didn’t want you to feel obligated or anything. Plus, I knew that me telling you that I’m curled up on the couch in a great amount of pain doesn’t exactly sound like a good time. It’s not like we are going to be getting into any of the fun stuff?”

“Abby, were you scared that I wouldn’t want to come over just because I wasn’t going to get laid?”

Her silence tells me everything I need to know. “I don’t give a shit about that. You and I hung out long before we were sleeping together. We don’t need to fuck every single time we spend any time together.” Leaning forward, I add, “And I’ll tell you right now, that if you were to say you still wanted it, there’s no way in hell a little bit of blood is going to stop me.”

I prompt her to sit up for a moment so that I can sit down and have Abby lay her head in my lap. My fingers run through her hair while I think of anything else I can do to help.

I look at the TV where she’s watching some sort of cooking competition. After watching for a couple of minutes, I notice something.

“Are all of these people really bad cooks instead of good?” I ask.

“Mm-hmm. They make me feel better about my own cooking skills.”

“Can you not cook?”

Her shoulders shrug. “I mean, I don’t starve. I can fend for myself alright, but everything I make is pretty comparable to what a ten-year-old would eat. Mac and cheese. Chicken nuggets. Ramen Noodles. Anything beyond that, I’m not great.”

She goes on, “My problem is that usually when I actually do take the time to make something decent, by the time I’ve finished cooking, I don’t want to eat it anymore. It’s like it won’t even sound good at that point. That’s why I get takeout so much.”

“Well, I guess sometimes, I’ll just have to cook for us.” I lean down to kiss her on the cheek.

“You’re amazing.”

“Oh, I’m not that great. You’ve just dated a bunch of assholes. The bare minimum would seem like a lot to you.”

“That’s probably true. But that doesn’t alter the fact that I think you’re pretty wonderful.”

“Back at you, baby.”

This may not be the best time to bring this up, but I’m going to feel her out anyway.

“Hey, Abs. What do you normally do for Thanksgiving?”

“Usually, I go to my parents’ house to eat. This year, they asked if we could do it on Wednesday instead of Thursday. One of my brothers has plans, I guess. Why?”

“Well, Jill called me earlier to see if I could come home to see our mom. I guess she’s been lonely.”

“Oh.” I swear I think I hear her voice fall a little. “That should be fun.”

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