Like Dad and Taylor.
Just last month, for her birthday, I gave her five hundred dollars for some acting boot camp in LA. Money I know I’ll never get back. Their need for help is constant. It’s always been this way.
That’s why The Frosted Spoon has to work. It has to succeed.
My chest tightens, a familiar, creeping anxiety pressing in. I take a deep breath, focusing on the sizzle of the vegetables instead of the stress threatening to take over. I need a subject change. Fast. I don’t want to have a panic attack in front of her right now. "So," I say, turning to Taylor with a casual tone I don’t feel, "who’s the lucky guy you’re meeting tonight?"
Yes.Men.
Talking about men should be safe.
"It’s just a hook-up," Taylor says, finishing her glass of wine like it’s no big deal. Then she tilts her head at me. "Are you seeing anyone?"
I snort. "What do you mean byseeing? Like a hallucination? A therapist? A ghost?"
She scoffs as I laugh, but this is how we operate—our own little half-sister dance. Neither of us sharing anything too real, always keeping just enough distance between us. Usually in the form of separate states and silence.
"If it’s hallucinations, share the drugs, please," she says, wiggling her fingers in a gimmemotion.
I grin, waving her hands away. "You know me. I’m a drug-free zone." Not the fun kind anyway.
"Well, there’s your first problem."
I chuckle, shaking my head. She’s probably right.
"Seriously, though," she presses, "are you seeingany men?"
I shake my head, still laughing. "Nope. Not even one."
Taylor gives me a long, skeptical stare, then slaps her hand down flat onto the counter. "Pleasedon’t tell me you’re still hung up on that idiot, what’s his face."
"I’m not,” I say firmly. “I can honestly say I am extremely happy for what's-his-face and his ugly new girlfriend. I mean it." I laugh as I pop open a can of black beans, but the truth is, I haven’t seen or heard from Nathan since we broke up four months ago. And honestly? That’s been a blessing. That entire relationship made me question everything about myself, and I didn’t like the answers I came up with. So dating hasn’t exactly been a priority since.Maybe it never will be.
"You should get back out there." Her voice drips with impatience as she pours herself another glass of wine. "You shouldn't waste the best years of your life waiting for him to come back andfinallyfall in love with you."
"I have been back out there," I say, my voice sharper than I intended. "And I am not sitting around waiting for Nathan to do anything."
And hedidlove me.
In his own twisted way.
"You should get on Tinder or something. Get laid."
I snort. "Yeah, well, I’ve used it a few times. But to me, it’s like picking a new nail color. At first, I'm all, ‘This is a great color,’ and then twenty minutes go by and I'm like, ‘This is not what I wanted at all. Get it off me.’"
Taylor groans. "Ugh, you feel like that because you're probably looking for a serious relationship. Just look for a good time.”
I shake my head. "I don't have time for a serious relationship, Taylor, so I'm definitely not looking for one.”
She tilts her head. "When was the last time you went on a date?"
I try to remember as I lock my can opener onto the top of a can of crushed tomatoes and twist it around the rim until it's fully open. "Oh, yeah. I know. It was a few weeks ago," I say, setting the can of tomatoes to the side. "I can't remember his name, but I remember him seriously asking me how I felt about coprophilia."
Taylor’s face scrunches. "Caa-pro-what?"
"Exactly!" I throw my hands up. "I had to discreetly Google it under the table while he rambled on about his disturbing fetish."
Taylor's fingers fly across her phone screen. I know theexactmoment she finds the definition because her eyes snap up to mine, wide with horror. "Ew. What did you say to him?"
