I wash my own beside her, feeling so clueless in this baking world, even if it isn’t that different from cooking.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” I tease, knocking my elbow with hers as I reach for a paper towel.
She smiles and tosses her paper towel in the trash bin. “Because murder is illegal, so I may as well kill you with kindness.”
“Kindness.” I snort as I dry my hands, following her to the workstation where stools are waiting for us.
“I’m not always the nicest person to you.” With a pause, she leans back, pulling her sleeves back down to her hands and holding them in her palms. “I wish I could say I was aware of it at the time, but I’m usually not. When it’s bad, I just feel…angry. Agitated. Like everything triggers me and I just explode, even when I don’t mean to. And I’m sorry. I keep saying I’m sorry and I keep doing it, but I truly am sorry. I’msorry, Rowan. You’ve been so incredibly patient while I’ve been a total bitch and you deserve better.”
I shake my head and make my way before her. “You aren’t a bitch.”
“I am,” she says. “Even when I try not to be, I’m always a bitch to you.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Maybe not today,” Natalia mumbles. “But it’s because nothing has triggered me today yet; I don’t feel as terrible as I usually do. This thing in my head, Rowan, it ruins so many things. I hate it. I hate that I can’t control it. I hate that depression is just…my friend at this point. I…”
“Take a breath.” I gather her hands in mine. “I get it.”
“You do?”
“More than you think,” I whisper. “After my mom, it was bad for me, Nat.”
“I know.”
“I was the same way,” I say, “with my dad, my grandparents. And worse, with my brother. He didn’t deserve the way I treated him during…that.”
“Yeah,” she scoffs. “I get that. I did the same with my dads; I hate it.”
“I know you do.” I put her hands on my chest. “But I don’t think you give yourself enough credit.”
“I don’t deserve the credit,” Natalia mumbles.
“One day, you’ll realize you do.” I brush my lips over her forehead. “For now, let’s play a game.”
Her skillfully shaped brows furrow. “Okay?”
“Twenty questions.”
Natalia cackles, her head tipping back and hands falling from my chest.
I chuckle. “What?”
“Twenty questions? Are we in high school?”
I shrug. “Just play.”
Her eyes roll. “Fine. You go.”
I smirk. “What’s your favorite thing about me?”
“Oh, so wearein high school.”
“I’m curious,” I say. “You call me ugly so often.”
Natalia sighs quietly, her fingers nervously clutching the piping bag that will soon be filled with white frosting. “Your patience.” She inhales deeply. “No one—Only Isa and Lana have ever been as patient as you are with me. You never call me difficult or tell me to cheer up and just be happy. You just let me feel.”
My eyes linger on her profile, watching the way they gloss over and flood enough for a tear to stick to her bottom lashes.
