But before I could serve myself a small bowl, she came rushing over from the kitchen, snatching the spoon right out of my hand. And then she gestured to that bag sitting by the door.
"You love she-crab soup, right? I ordered takeout just for you."
Ah—the clam chowder wasn't meant for me at all but for her new damn hire.
Without saying a word, I started unwrapping the takeout, trying damn hard to ignore the big fat [9.99$] on the receipt. But then I saw the cilantro garnish on the soup, and I couldn't just ignore that, too.
"Honey, we've been together for 10 freakin' years, and you still don't know I hate cilantro?"
Meredith froze for a second, then scoffed, "Well then, don't eat it if you don't want it." She turned away and went back to packing up the clam chowder into a container.
She grabbed her keys, ready to bolt. She was about to head out when I stopped her, shoving this opened blue box into her hand.
"I don't use other men's condoms, Meredith. Tell Devon to take care of his own damn stuff," I said, straight up.
Her face turned this bright, guilty red. She just stared down at the box, swallowing hard, looking completely caught out.