“Yeah?”
“When you and Tom would fight, and you were the instigator, how did you apologize? How did you make amends?”
She fell silent for a moment. “You guys had a fight?”
“Not a fight, per se. Just a sort of…I don’t know. A disagreement, I guess.”
“Whenever I felt I was at fault, and sometimes when I wasn’t, I always made him food. When you apologize, be sincere, then feed him. It works every time.”
Chapter 22
Boxer’sfront porch light was on, and I could see the glow of the living room lamps through the closed blinds.
He was home.
With a sigh, I cut the engine, and then sat for a moment in the parking spot on the street.
The front door to the house opened, and Boxer loomed in the doorway. Even though the sun had long since set, I could see him clearly, illuminated in porch light.
He was wearing a pair of jeans, a button-down red and black flannel shirt, and no shoes. His jaw was scruffy from not shaving, and his hair was messy. Boxer crossed his arms, leaned against the door jamb, and waited. He didn’t appear to be in any substantial discomfort from his recent injury, and I seriously wondered about his pain tolerance.
Girding my loins, I grabbed the bag with the pie I’d bought at Pie in the Sky, my purse, and climbed out.
“How’d you get my address?” he asked.
“I asked Reap for it.”
“You don’t call?” Boxer drawled. “I could’ve been out.”
“You don’t call,” I reminded him. “You just show up on my doorstep. I’m taking a play from your book.”
I locked the car and then headed up the sidewalk, but before I got to the porch, I stopped.
“What’d you bring?” he asked with a nod at the bag.
“Pie.” I held it up.
He didn’t move, and I was worried he wasn’t going to.
“What kind of pie?” he asked finally.
“Blueberry. From Pie in the Sky Bakery.”
He pushed away from the door.
I came up the steps and before I swept past him, I stopped and looked up, meeting his gaze. I gauged his body for signs of fever. He wasn’t flushed and his eyes were clear—and casually blank. In that moment, I realized it was his way of masking what he was feeling.
Boxer shut the door behind me and then took the bag from my grasp, careful not to touch me.
Sadness at his rejection enveloped me, and it was my instinct to continue pulling away, but he was always offering me honesty and openness. It was my turn to do the same.
“Sit,” he commanded, pointing to the kitchen chair. He pulled out the pie and set it on the table.
“I don’t like how we left things,” I said.
“So you drove all the way back here to say that?”
“No. I drove around Waco all day to clear my head and to find the best comfort food that went nicely with an apology. If you don’t want pie, I’ll order chicken wings. Or barbecue. Or anything else you want. Just…hear me out. Okay?”