Max didn't move. He stayed in the entryway, waiting for me.
I opened my eyes and looked at him.
"Go put your shoes on."
He glanced down at the soaked slippers on his feet, made a small sound of agreement, and turned to change them.
I went to the window and lifted one corner of the curtain.
The street below was empty. The lamp was on, and a few petals lay on the ground, rolling a couple of turns in the wind.
Max came over in his shoes and stood beside me at the window, hands in his pockets.
"Will he come back?"
"I don't know."
I let the curtain fall and turned to get water in the kitchen.
He followed and leaned against the fridge, watching me.
"Maybe I shouldn't have come out."
"You'd have met sooner or later."
He nodded and didn't say anything else.
I took a sip of water and set the glass down.
"Do you regret it?" he asked.
"No."
"Then why are your hands shaking?"
I looked down. My fingertips really were trembling.
I curled them into a fist and pulled them back.
Max came over, took my hand, pressed his palm against my fingers, and slowly closed it around them.
"I'll cook you some pasta."
"I'm not hungry."
"Just a little."
He turned and opened the fridge for eggs, the motion easy, as if he'd lived here a long time.
In truth, he'd only moved in last night.
I sat at the table and watched him cook.
He brought the water to a boil, dropped in the pasta, cracked the eggs, added salt.
Every step unhurried.
"When you were with Amos, who cooked?"
"He never did."
Max turned the heat down and stirred the pasta with chopsticks.
"So who did?"
"I did. For ten years."
He didn't answer. He turned off the heat, lifted the pasta out, and set it in front of me.
"You won't have to anymore."
I looked down at the bowl, steam rising into my face.
Max held the chopsticks out to me. I didn't take them.
"What do you want from me?"
"I want you to eat."
"I'm serious."
He laid the chopsticks across the rim of the bowl. "Eat this, and I'll tell you."
I picked them up and took a bite. It was bland. He'd been light on the salt.
"All these years, I've wanted you to finally see who really cares about you," he said.
I chewed without looking up, my eyes stinging a little.
The doorbell rang again.
The chopsticks stopped midair. Max glanced at me, then went to the door.
I looked through the peephole. Amos was back, no flowers this time, dust on his clothes, his eyes still red.
Max opened the door but didn't let him in.
"You're still here?"
"I need to say one thing to her."
"She doesn't want to talk to you."
Amos tilted his head and looked past him into the apartment. "You come out, and I'll say just one thing."
I went to the door and stood behind Max.
"Say it."
Amos's voice was dry. "That five hundred thousand—I've wired it back."
I said nothing.
"I kept your account number. That fifty cents you sent me, I've paid it back too. I wired you five million."
Max turned his head and looked at me.
"Are you out of your mind?" I said.
"I'm not. I'm just telling you I don't owe you anything."
"Whether you owe me has nothing to do with money."
A vein jumped in Amos's neck. "Then tell me. What does he have that I don't?"
