What a ridiculous notion.
“Merry Christmas.” He pours two mugs and hands me one.
Our fingers brush on the exchange.
We both freeze.
Then I pull back too quickly and nearly spill hot coffee on myself.
Nice, Sorrel.
I quickly take a sip to cover up my flustered state.
It’s perfect.
We’re talking, abso-frickin’-lutely perfect.
Theexactright strength.
Theexactright temperature.
“This is... this is really good,” I admit.
One corner of his mouth twitches. The start of a smile. “I had a good teacher.”
Those words make me tingle in places where I definitely shouldn’t be tingling...
We settle at the kitchen island with our coffee and some pantry items we scavenge for breakfast. He finds protein bars. I locate some dried fruit. It’s not exactly a Christmas feast but it’ll do.
For a few minutes we eat in silence. Not exactly comfortable, but not hostile either. Just this weird in-between space we seem to occupy now. Probably because we’re both still processing waking up tangled together and neither of us knows how to address it.
So we don’t.
We just drink perfect French press coffee and pretend everything is hunky-dory.
“Tell me more about your research,” he says suddenly, breaking the silence. “The mycorrhizal networks. I want to understand.”
I blink at him. “Why?”
He doesn’t back down. “Because you clearly love it. And I’m curious.”
The genuine interest in his voice catches me off guard. Most people’s eyes glaze over when I talk about soil fungi. Even my ex used to zone out within thirty seconds.
But instead I say: “And not because you’re bored and want to pass the time? Stuck here as you are with someone who hates your guts?”
He seems taken aback when I say that, almost like I slapped him in the face.
Whoops.
Why did I say that last part?
Because it’s true.
Isn’t it?
“Do you?” he finally asks. “Hate my guts?”
I should say yes. Should maintain that moral clarity. Should remember who he is and what he’s done.
