He inspected the carton of yogurt I selected. "Okay. I get it."
I trailed my fingertip over the array of tiny jars of honey. I pointed across the room, to the open-air deck far away from the mingled scents of roasted meats and frying egg. "Let's sit out there."
After we settled at the table, Sebastian glanced at me from under those thick lashes. "Was that okay? Did it make you anxious?"
"Not too much." I opened the jar of honey, gave it a sniff. The smell of honey always made me happy. "I know it looks crazy and it probably sounds crazy, but I don'tfeelcrazy when I'm in control of my options. I can come back here tomorrow because I know I can have toast and there's yogurt along with some of the fruits I like. Even if these eggs don't work out, other items will, and then I know I don't have to obsess over how to get through something as basic as breakfast."
When a server swung by the table, Sebastian ordered juice and coffee for himself and hot tea for me.
When she stepped away, I added, "It helped that you weren't a giant asshole about it. I was prepared for that."
Pouring syrup over his French toast, he asked, "Were you prepared because you expect me to be an asshole to you or because you have experience with people being an asshole when you try to tell them what you need?"
I speared a tiny amount of eggs onto my fork. "Little bit of both."
He watched while I sampled the eggs, gave me a questioning nod. I wiggled my shoulders in response. They were all right. Not my favorite, but not bad. Then, he said, "I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry," I said, and I meant it. I didn't know what it was about this cease-fire, but I no longer felt like he was doing somethingtome. Rather, we were doing this to each other. And I didn't feel as though I had to protect myself from everything. "I mean, you can be whatever you want, but you don't have to apologize for that. For any amount of asshole you've given me, I've given you raging bitch right back."
He jabbed his fork in my direction. "Don't say that."
"No, it's okay. That word is complicated, but it's not complicated for me. I know what it means to me and for me," I insisted, tapping a hand to my chest. "It's probably time I explain to you that I have the heart of a savage bitch and I'm quite proud of her. She tells the perfectionist in my head when to sit down and shut up, and she makes me stand up to trauma surgeons who think the only appropriate method of closure is a staple."
He stared at me with a slight smile, his chin resting on his palm. "Is that who I have to thank?"
I rubbed a hand to my sternum. A warm pressure seemed to build there. It heated my cheeks too. "Yes."
"You should know I like her. A lot," he added. "I like it when you show me how strong you are. I think you like it too. You just don't think you should."
I'd always known there was something odd inherent in talking about these parts of myself as if they were disembodied people whose voices I happened to hear, but it helped me isolate the origins of all my conflicted emotions. It helped me to see the perfectionist as a kid who desperately needed something in her life to be safe and the savage as an angsty, rage-filled teenager who refused to be misunderstood. It helped to cleave all those feelings into two parts and hear them separately.
For all the years I'd lived with that knowledge, I'd never once felt the singular glow of someone choosing the messiest, most volatile part of me as the one worth treasuring. The good girl got all the attention. She asked for nothing and did everything, making her so damn easy to love. But that love was shallow. It was ankle-deep love, the kind that drifted in and out with the tides. It took from me more than it gave. It didn't matter and it didn't last.
Not that this was love. This was…a cease-fire. A reprieve. A moment where we didn't capitalize on every opportunity to torment each other.
This wasnotabout love. Not even close.
"You're right. I don't think I should let my savage bitch out that often," I replied, dipping my spoon into the yogurt. "I can't live every day like it's bubble suit jousting day."
"We should do that again," he mused. "Maybe I'll win the next time around."
"Don't get your hopes up."
He dragged his gaze over me, slow and scowly. "Too bad. Already have."
It was the comfortable,pleasant kind of humid here on the island, the sun was high and bright without being too intense. The ocean was close enough to provide a light, hammock-nap kind of soundtrack and soft, pale sand was only a few steps away from the patio outside my bungalow.
For once, Sebastian had not a single complaint about the weather.
That did not mean he was free of all complaints.
I pushed my sunglasses to the top of my head and glanced over at him. He had the end of a highlighter between his teeth as he frowned at an article in theJournal of Emergency Medicine.It was the type of frown that could mean he disagreed vehemently or he was head over heels for the content. Anyone's guess.
"I'm getting a drink," I said as I crossed the patio into the bungalow. "Do you want anything?"
With a parting grimace for the journal, he asked, "What does that mean in your world? The only thing I've ever seen you drink is weak tea and water."
"I can drink mellow white wines and beers that aren't too sour or hoppy, but I usually pass unless I'm feeling really good." I leaned against the door. "I asked the resort to stock the fridge, so I'm sure there's something for you in there."
