“I … don’t have one.”
His head snaps my way so fast that I hear it pop. “Ow. Okay.What?”
A sound that seems similar to the snorts I’ve heard from Tristen escapes my throat and I clear it away.
“I’ve never really listened to music much. I like what you play sometimes?” That last part comes out more like a question and my face goes hot.
I’m not sure that I really like the songs themselves. I don’t pay much attention to the beats or the words.
But Tristen does.
“Oh, no. We’re gonna have to fix that. You need at least one favorite song. Likeyoursong. The one you feel in your bones.”
Blu brings out plates and piles them on the table in front of us, but that doesn’t stop Tristen from asking a million rapid-fire questions that go unanswered.
He seems … off.
I don’t know if I can place what’s wrong because he’s smiling, but he’s eating and talking. Jumbling his thoughts when he speaks. Ignoring Blu even though she’s arching a brow at him.
“Thank you,” she emphasizes to him, and he snaps her direction.
“Thanks, babe. You got any cherry pie?”
Her gaze swings to me. “You just gonna let him call me babe like that in front of you?”
I shrink back.
Tristen’s brows slam down. “He’s got his own name, Blu.”
She scoffs and tucks her tray under her arm. “I didn’t hear a denial in there, Ten. You got something you wanna tell me? Something about that closet you like to hide in?”
He makes that snorting noise and picks up his fork.
“None ya.”
Painted lips tip at the corner, and something sparkles in her eyes. “Sure thing,babe. Enjoy the cyanide.”
My stomach twists up, and I stare down at the plate of eggs and bacon in front of me.
I have no idea what just happened.
“Did it bother you?”
I look sidelong at Tristen and poke at the yellow blob on the plate in front of me with the tines of my fork.
His brows are scrunched up tight and his eyes look … worried?
I shrug and scoop up a bite even though my stomach twists up. “You say a lot of things.”
“I won’t call her that anymore,” he says with such intention that I shrink back even more.
Why did I leave my hood down again?
I reach up and pull it into place.
“It’s okay,” I whisper and tuck my fingers inside my sleeves.
There’s a chip on the edge of the ceramic plate that holds my food, a spot where the white and shiny is disturbed by the muted inside. It looks like it would be rough if I touched it. Like a fine sandpaper.
