My eyes turn toward the window, and I see him check his phone and hang his head low. He runs his hands through his hair a few times before he faces the woods and lets out a long scream.
That makes me wince. Oh dear. What’s stressing him out? The situation or my singing?
Whatever it is, he’s not handling it well. But if I hadn’t heard that wail, I’d never know he was upset. Because when he walks back into the cabin and straight to the small makeshift kitchen, he looks composed. He reaches up, the shirt snaking up his stomach as he pulls out two cans, a pot, and a bowl.
We skipped breakfast entirely. I’m sure anxiety has curbed his appetite. He probably doesn’t want to eat. I, however, am starving. I could eat anytime.
I’d eat him, if he’d let me.
The smell of chicken noodle soup wafts toward me as he heats our lunch on the small stove. When he pours some into a bowl, he spills some on the ground and swears loudly.
“Little butterfly?” I say, making his back tense.
He peers over his shoulder. “What?”
“You seem distressed.”
“I’m not. I’m perfectly calm and collected.”
But I see the way his hands tremble as he brings the bowl toward me.
“We could talk about it. You could tell me all the things in your head. Especially who you’re working for.”
“No. I’m not doing that. You can shut up.”
I sigh as he sets the bowl down.
“No, I can wait. You should eat first,” I tell him, but he shakes his head.
“I’m not hungry.”
That makes my lips turn down. “You should eat to keep up your energy. I know it doesn’t feel like you need it, but trust me, you do.”
“And how would you know?” He picks the bowl up, holds it near his lips, and blows on it.
He asks it sassily, like he doesn’t expect a serious answer. I don’t plan on giving him one either, but I do. It slips from my lips as easily as it was for me to get out of that rope.
“I’ve been without food before. I know what it’s like to starve. How it weakens you so much you can barely think, let alone move.”
That makes his eyes widen and his lips part. “What?”
I shrug, unsure of why I revealed that. I don’t plan on giving him any more little tidbits. At least not yet. “It doesn’t matter. Just know that if you want to make it through this, you need to eat. Or you’ll crash and burn. Trust me.”
He doesn’t trust me like that. Not yet. But he’ll learn to. I just hope to mitigate some of the steeper learning curves with advice from my past, lived experiences.
From the life lessons my father ingrained in me.
Fucked up lessons, but ones nonetheless.
He purses his lips. “Fine, I’ll eat.”
I slip away from the seriousness of the moment with a smirk. “Good. And then after that, you know what would help?”
He eyes me. “What?”
“A blow job. A nice throat fucking.”
His lungs inhale, sharp and surprised. “I’m not giving you a blow job, Brad.”
