“Holy shit,” he said, “this looks unreal. I don’t even know where to start. I think I’ll have…everything.”
I giggled despite how awkward I felt as he started to grab one serving bowl at a time and dole out massive scoops of green beans, pot roast, and potatoes onto his plate. I watched him, hands in my lap. He picked up his fork, took an alarmingly large swipe through the whole mess, and shoveled into his mouth.
Halfway through chewing, he paused and looked at me. He forced the food down with a big gulp and said in a deadly serious voice, “This is hands down the best food I’ve ever had.”
“You’re just being nice,” I demurred.
“Carmen. Look at me.” I raised my eyes to his cautiously. “I don’t screw around with stuff like that. When I say something, I mean it. This is incredible. You didn’t have to do all this. Although,” he added, “I’m sure as hell glad you did.”
“Thanks,” I said shyly. “It wasn’t a big deal.”
Satisfied that I’d begrudgingly accepted his compliment, he turned back to eating. “Where’d you learned to cook like this?” he asked between bites.
“I used to cook with my mom every now and then. She was way better than me. She could make anything taste delicious. I swear, even cereal was better when she made it.”
“Not better than when I make cereal, though,” he teased.
“Well, of course not, Chef Killmore. Mister Chef Killmore.”
He looked up and grinned, but frowned again when he saw that my plate was empty. “Are you not going to eat?”
“No, it’s okay, I’m really not hungry.”
“Bullshit,” he fired back. “You need to eat. I’d bet a million bucks that you haven’t had a bite today. Am I right?”
I paused. “Well, you wouldn’t lose your money,” I finally admitted.
“That’s what I thought. I’m not going to stand for any of the bullshit excuses you might have as to why. I don’t care if you think you’re going to get fat, or you think you’ll embarrass yourself in front of me eating, or whatever. Doesn’t matter. You’re a human, you need food, so you eat.”
“I, uh—”
“No,” he said, waving his fork in the air as he cut me off. “I don’t give a damn if you think this marriage is legit or not. You’re in my house. You eat. Now, go on,” he instructed, gesturing towards the food. “Dig in. I’m a big son of a bitch, but I’m still not gonna be able to tackle all this alone.”
I gave in. He clearly wasn’t going to stop until I put some food on my plate. And he was right, I hadn’t eaten all day, and I was starving. I wasn’t quite sure why I was so hesitant to eat. The things he’d said were at least partially true. Just like every other girl my age, I’d had that “beauty is pain” mentality drilled into my head practically from the day I was born. Every celebrity interview I’d ever read boasted about how today’s hottest starlets got by on a diet of seltzer water, two leaves of lettuce, and a healthy gulp of air every now and then. I guessed I’d just internalized that, learned to equate starvation with looking good. The other thing wasn’t far off the mark either. After the debacle of barging in on Ben naked that I’d just experienced, the last thing I wanted to do was give him a big, Sparky smile with a piece of beef wedged between my front chompers. I’d have dinner without the side of embarrassment, thank you very much.
Ben was staring at me, fork hovering in his fist. I reached out and started spooning a little heap of each dish onto my plate. But when I’d served myself, he was still watching me.
“I’m not a baby, you know. You don’t have to watch me chew and swallow.”
He raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Jeez, what a stubborn ass he was! I was eighteen years old, married, and, thanks to the man across the table from me, pregnant. I was fully capable of putting food in my mouth without his unyielding attention. But despite my glare, he didn’t blink or look away. I gave an exasperated, melodramatic sigh, collected a forkful of food, and deposited it in my mouth. I chewed, swallowed, and set the fork down with a clink.
“There,” I said. “Satisfied?”
“It’s a start. Do that a hundred more times and we’ll be a-okay.” He went back to eating.
“Anyone ever tell you that you can be a real asshole?” I said.
“If I had a penny for every time someone told me that, I’d hire someone just to follow me around and tell those people, ‘I know.’”
In spite of my irritation, I couldn’t help but snicker. He smiled as he kept eating.
“Anyway,” he said after a minute of quiet chewing, “you were telling me about your mom.”