“I liked it,” he added, because for some odd reason, he wanted her to talk.
She said, “Good.” Then she sipped her tea. Which had to be fucking scalding. Evan winced.
“You like comic books?” he said. Then he wanted to wince again, this time at himself. You like comic books? He’d already seen a hundred of them lying around the flat. She drank tea from superhero mugs. She was wearing pyjamas with the Hulk’s face on them. Yes, she liked comic books.
The look she gave him was narrow and suspicious. “Why do you ask?”
“Just making conversation.”
“If you’re planning on reporting back to Daniel, don’t bother. He already knows what I like.”
That sentence seemed oddly phrased. Then again, most of her sentences seemed oddly phrased. Evan didn’t understand this woman, not even a little bit—but something about her made him want to.
“You two don’t get on,” Evan said. He was full of scintillating conversation today.
“I suppose not,” Ruth replied, her tone hollow.
“Is that why he called you slow?” It had bothered him, that word. Slow. Plenty of teachers had called him slow, because he wasn’t particularly academic. It stuck in his teeth like grit.
Ruth set down her mug. “He called me slow because he thinks there’s something wrong with my brain.”
There was a pause. To save it from becoming awkward, Evan drank some tea. The liquid nearly burned his tongue, but she’d managed it, so he would too.
“Before you ask,” she said, “there’s nothing wrong with my brain.”
Evan swallowed. “I wasn’t going to—”
“I’m autistic.”
He put his mug on the table. “Cool. I mean, you know—got it. Okay. Yeah.”
Ruth took another gulp of tea, then got up to put the mug in the sink. She’d… finished it. She’d finished the tea. In less than two minutes. Okay, then.
She turned, folded her arms, and pinned him with a hard look. “Are you a serial killer?”
“Has it only just occurred to you that I might be?”
“Sadly, yes. I suppose it’s too late for me now.”
He laughed. Ruth didn’t.
Instead, she continued, “You have to stop bringing me food.”
Evan leaned back in his seat. The wooden chair creaked dangerously beneath his weight, but he didn’t worry; he was used to that sort of thing. Sliding his hands behind his head, he met her gaze head on.
She looked away.
“Why?” he asked. “Does it make you uncomfortable?”
“No,” she said firmly. Almost defiantly, her pointed chin lifting. He was struck again by how pretty she was. Which was strange. He didn’t usually notice that sort of thing.
Clearing his throat, he asked, “Why, then?”
“I’m not a charity case or a child. I know how to feed myself.”
Evan raised his brows. “So you can cook?”
He hadn’t thought a person could glare so hard. If looks could kill, Ruth would be a weapon of mass destruction.
“No,” she clipped out. “I can’t.”
“Is that why they took your oven?”
“I removed my oven,” she corrected, “because I knocked some comics onto the hob and nearly burned down the flat. Plus, I lost twelve vintage X-Men issues.” This last was muttered with bitter regret.
“So what do you eat, then? Aside from Supernoodles?”
“Toast,” she said. “Scrambled eggs. Carrot sticks.”
Evan stared. “It’s like you’re encouraging me.”
“I beg your pardon?”
With a sigh, he stood. “Listen. I get what you’re saying—I really do. But I already make food for… other people. So it’s no trouble, especially when you’re right next door. Also, I enjoy helping. And I really am worried about you.”
She put a hand against her stomach and said, “Do I look malnourished?”
Evan shrugged. “I’m not a doctor. But, aside from anything else, the idea of you eating carrot sticks for dinner is frankly depressing.”
She spluttered. “You can’t—I don’t—we don’t even know each other!”
“Sure we do.” Evan gave her his best smile. The one he usually saved for crotchety old ladies. Why he was using it to convince his neighbour that he should be allowed to bring her food on a regular basis, he had no fucking clue.
What am I doing right now?
Just go with it.
“That wall’s so damned thin,” he continued, “we might as well be best friends.”
There was a pause, during which she seemed flummoxed. But then, with obvious reluctance, she said, “That’s funny.”
“Uh… thank you?”
“You’re a good cook.”
Evan’s uncertainty faded with that clear compliment. He winked. “Wait ‘til you try the lasagne.”
She looked at the foil-covered dish on the table. He wasn’t sure if she seemed eager, horrified, or perhaps some odd mixture of both.