He studied me. Then he nodded.
I thought I was off the hook but then he said, “Does your pizza keep?”
I blinked at him. “Pardon?”
He asked a different question. “Did you eat it?”
“Um…no,” I answered.
“Does it keep?”
“I think so,” I told him though I didn’t know. I made it. I baked it. I ate it. I’d never tested to see if it would keep in raw form prior to baking.
“Tomorrow night. Seven thirty. I’ll be back.”
My breath left me.
When I sucked some back in, I told him quietly, “You don’t have to do this.”
His brows drew together and he replied, “I know that. What I don’t know is why you’d think I’d think I do.”
There was no way I was going to explain it to him especially since I knew he knew, he was just being nice, so instead I said, “I’m just saying.”
“What?” he asked when I said no more. I didn’t respond so he continued, “What are you just saying?”
“I’m saying you don’t have to do this.”
He started to look impatient before he said, “Mara, let me in.”
“I’m tired and I need to work tomorrow.”
“I’m thinkin’ we need to talk right now.”
I shook my head. “There’s nothing to say. I should have maybe slipped you a note or something to tell you when I’d be over. I’m sorry that I put you in that –”
He cut me off, definitely impatient, “Mara, just let me in.”
“Mitch, really. Sundays are crazy at work. I need to sleep.”
“That wasn’t what you thought it was,” he told me.
I shook my head again. “There’s no need to explain.”
“Jesus, Mara, just let me in.”
“I’ll knock on your door next time, leave you a note, give you a warning, make sure you’re free.”
“Mara –”
I stepped away from the door and started closing it, “’Night, Mitch.”
“Damn it, Mara.”
I closed the door, locked it and ran to my room, closing that door too.
Then I got in my nightgown, slid into my bed and finally let myself cry.
A long time later, when I was done, I wiped my face, got out of bed, went to my open plan living room-slash-kitchen-slash-dining area and turned out the lights.