As we leave the school parking lot the following Thursday, I text Roman to let him know that I need to stop at the market and pick up a few ingredients for dinner.
I usually don’t cook during the week, but there’s something enjoyable about preparing a meal that will be eaten with another person instead of scarfing down a bowl of cereal at the kitchen counter or in front of the TV.
Roman silently walks beside me in the store as I pick up chicken breasts, a wedge of fresh parmigiana, noodles, and sauce since I don’t have time to make my own. My mother would keel over if she found out I’m eating, let alone serving, jarred sauce.
The way Roman stands next to me while I pull boxes and cans from the shelves feels ridiculously domestic, like we’re an ordinary couple shopping for groceries. Once I realize what I’m doing, I shove the fantasy aside. Imagining a romantic relationship between us is laughable. Intellectually, I understand this. But my heart isn’t ready to accept the inevitable. All this forced proximity isn’t helping matters either.
Once we get to my house, I dredge the pounded chicken cutlets in egg and then a flour mixture seasoned with Italian herbs and grated parmigiana. I pan-fry the meat, cover it with sauce and mozzarella, and stick it in the oven. Mama used to make chicken parmigiana once a week when we were growing up because it was a family favorite.
Now that I’m on my own, I rarely make it because it’s too much work for one person.
When the chicken is baked and the noodles are boiled, I call Roman to the kitchen, and we sit down to eat. Again, my mother would have a coronary if she knew I was serving boxed noodles at my dinner table. She makes all her pasta fresh from scratch. I often came home from school and found racks of drying pasta all over the kitchen.
The meal itself is a quiet affair. Roman says nothing if I don’t make an effort to pull conversation from him. He just shovels food into his mouth, which—I’m not going to lie—is satisfying after the effort I made. Oddly enough, the silence hanging over us isn’t uncomfortable.
But there’s only so much I can take. Halfway through the meal, I blurt, “What’s your problem with me?”
It’s almost comical the way Roman’s fork stalls in midair. His gaze locks on mine from across the table as he sets the utensil on his plate. “What makes you think I have a problem?” he asks, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
My brows skyrocket toward my hairline.
Is that a serious question?
I almost laugh at the absurdity of it.
“In the three years we’ve known each other, you’ve never said one kind word to me. In fact, it’s been the exact opposite.”
He glares, a hunted expression flashing across his face.
If Roman thinks he can intimidate me into dropping or changing the subject, he’s sadly mistaken. His behavior has bothered me from day one. And I deserve an answer.
“Just be honest,” I say. “You’re not going to hurt my feelings any more than you already have. I’m immune to your personality.” That last part is a lie, but this is my opportunity to finally get an explanation, and I’m taking it.
A muscle ticks in his jaw. “You shouldn’t be consorting with your father’s men.”
That’s not an answer, and we both know it.
“I don’t think exchanging simple pleasantries can necessarily be called consorting,” I scoff.
He picks up his water and guzzles half the glass.
He’s stalling.
Forgetting about the unfinished chicken on my plate, I push it aside and rest my elbows on the table, leaning toward him. “What did I ever do to piss you off? Right from the start, you had a problem with me.”
Roman’s jaw clenches again as he looks everywhere but at me. “You didn’t do anything,” he mutters. “It was never like that.”
I shake my head, more confused than ever. Does he have a reason for hating me or is he just a jackass? I’m favoring the jackass theory right now. “Then what was it like? Explain it to me,” I demand angrily, “because I’ve seen you be nice to my mother as well as my sister. You’re fine with my brothers. And even Grace.”
The hunted look is back in full force. It’s the weirdest thing. I’m not sure what to make of it.
He sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. “It’s my issue. It doesn’t have anything to do with you, okay?”
Nothing to do with me?
“No,” I snap. “It’s not okay. There must be something about me that rubs you the wrong way. You’ve never given me a chance to prove that your initial impression was wrong.”
I know he doesn’t want to discuss this topic. But I’m done with walking on eggshells and avoiding him. And I refuse to feel like I’ve done something wrong. We’re going to clear the air right here and now.
Roman folds his arms across his chest, his biceps popping with the movement. “I’m not getting into this with you,” he says testily. “It’s just better for both of us if I keep my distance. I work for your father. There’s nothing more to our relationship than that.” He pushes away from the table and stands. “I’ll be outside. Lock the door behind me.”
Disappointment swirls through me. As ordered, I lock the door and pick up the plates, dumping our unfinished meal into the garbage.
Not only have we both lost our appetites, but I’m no closer to understanding his behavior than I was before.