“I considered it.”
“I assumed.”
“Frequently.”
“That part I also assumed.”
Cade looks past me toward the open gate, then back.
“I made pizza.”
For several seconds, I think I misheard him.
“You did what?”
“The pizza.”
Recognition arrives with the old photograph from his section. Cade sitting on our kitchen floor with flour on his hands and a ruined circle of dough between us.
I start laughing.
His expression immediately darkens. “You asked.”
“You spent six weeks respecting my boundaries through homemade pizza?”
“That is not how I would describe it.”
“How would you describe it?”
“I got good at pizza.”
That only makes it worse.
Cade folds his arms while I try to recover.
“How many?”
“I stopped counting.”
“You absolutely did not.”
“Eleven.”
I stare at him.
“Eleven pizzas.”
“The first few were bad.”
“The first one we made could have been used to repair a roof.”
“I know that now.”
“Did you finally stop trying to throw the dough?”
“I can throw it.”
“Successfully?”