And Flynn in his abrupt manner had pushed his plate away from him. “I don’t like lasagna,” he had said.

I sat there, stunned, hardly able to believe that all of my hard work hadn’t meant anything. The food in my belly made me feel sick and I couldn’t eat anymore.

I had told myself I shouldn’t be upset. That he didn’t mean to hurt my feelings. The truth was Flynn had no idea how hard I had worked. He didn’t realize that when he said he didn’t like lasagna, he might as well have thrown the plate across the room.

And in true Ellie McCallum fashion, I had turned my hurt feelings into anger. I had gotten to my feet and grabbed his full plate and dropped it in the sink.

“Well don’t fucking eat it, then,” I fumed.

“Don’t cuss, Ellie. It doesn’t sound nice,” Flynn had scolded, sounding put out.

I had turned around, my face hot, my eyes wet. “You know what’s not nice, Flynn? I just spent the last two hours making that damn meal and you don’t even try eating it! You just say, ‘I don’t like lasagna.’ Well screw you!” I had yelled, scrapping food off the plates into the trash.

I vigorously scrubbed the plates trying not to scream. Or even worse, cry.

Then Flynn was behind me. He carefully put his hand on my back and I flinched at the touch.

“I didn’t know you worked so hard on dinner. I should have eaten it. That wasn’t very nice, was it?” he had asked.

I turned off the water, my shoulders sagging.

“No it wasn’t, Flynn. When someone goes to the trouble to make you something, you should at least try to eat it and be polite,” I said, suddenly tired. Flynn still had so much to learn about how to communicate. So did I. Neither of us had ever learned the right way to talk to people.

“You’re really mad at me, aren’t you?” Flynn had asked.

I sighed, finally turning around to look at him. He was frowning, his green eyes troubled.

“Yeah, I am,” I admitted.

Flynn’s hand clenched into fists but he didn’t rub them together the way he once would have. He held himself rigid, as though waiting for an attack.

“I don’t like it when you’re mad at me,” he had said.

“I don’t like being mad at you, Flynn. It sucks,” I agreed.

Flynn shook his head, looking sad. “Yeah, it does suck.”

He had reached around me and picked up a fork that was lying on the counter. He dug it in the lasagna that was still on the stove where I had left it after taking it from the oven.

He scooped out a large forkful and shoved it in his mouth, sauce smearing his lips. He made a face but then started chewing.

After he swallowed, he scooped some on a plate and went to sit down at the table again.

“You don’t have to eat it if you don’t like it, Flynn,” I had told him, watching him as he ate the pile of pasta on his plate.

Flynn didn’t say anything but he finished the lasagna. And when he was done he took his then empty dish to the sink, washed it, and put it on the drying rack.

He leaned down and kissed me. “Thank you for making me dinner, Ellie,” he said before grabbing Murphy’s leash and taking the dog outside.

I had stood in the middle of the kitchen, completely bewildered by what had happened.

That hadn’t been the only instance of contention between us. Yesterday Flynn had come home from work and walked into the bedroom, where I was putting away laundry. I had just finished hanging up his shirts in the closet when he came into the room.

“Hey,” I had said, looking over my shoulder. Flynn was stood just inside the door watching me.

“What are you doing?” he had asked.

I looked at the shirt in my hands and then back at my less than happy boyfriend.

“Uh, putting clothes away,” I had answered, not sure what his problem was.

Flynn had marched across the room and practically ripped the shirt from my hands. He lifted it to his nose and smelled the fabric.

“What in the world?” I had asked, laughing nervously.

“What detergent did you use?” he demanded and then had started pulling all of the shirts I had just hung up off the hangers, smelling each of them.

“I used the detergent in the laundry room,” I had told him, confused.

“The one with the purple cap?” he had asked, throwing the shirts on the floor and walking across the room to the basket of clean clothes I had put on the bed.

“Um, yeah. I think so,” I answered, watching in complete shock as he dumped the clothes on the floor.

“That’s not right! That’s the detergent for the sheets! I only use that detergent for the sheets, Ellie! The bottle with the green cap is for the clothes! I can’t wear these! I’ll have to wash them again! You can’t use the detergent with the purple cap for my clothes! It doesn’t smell right!” he yelled, getting himself worked up.

He had balled up all of the clothes and left the room. I followed him to the laundry room where he had started the washing machine and was measuring out detergent from the bottle with a green cap.

He held out the detergent bottle. “See! This is the right one!” he hollered. “Don’t ever use the other one on clothes!”

I felt myself starting to get angry. I couldn’t help it. My reaction was instantaneous and instinctual to his criticism.

In the past, I had always tried to handle his outbursts with a patience that I hadn’t been aware I possessed. I had taken his freak-outs in stride. But that had been before we were living together.