Of course he’d say that. Of course he’d cut straight past the surface and name the thing underneath.
The back of my eyes pricks. I turn away, pressing the jar to my stomach as a shield, the glass cool against my overheated skin.
“It’s sentimental,” I bite out. “Okay? It’s mine.”
He doesn’t move. I can feel his stare on the side of my face, hot and heavy as sunlight.
Then I hear him shift. A step. Another.
“Is that… all it is?” he asks. Rougher. “Just… sentimental?”
The way he speaks makes my throat tighten.
“It’s not your business,” I snap, but the fight’s already draining out of the words, replaced by frustration and exhaustion.
“I know it’s not,” he replies. “But I’m standing in my kitchen, and you look like you’re about to shatter. So I’m asking anyway.”
I let out a shaky breath. “I’m not…”
I cut myself off.
The lie feels too big to stuff back down.
He waits. That’s the thing about Boone. He doesn’t push with words. He pushes with silence. With patience. With that relentless presence that won’t look away.
“It’s just…”
I stare at the jar. The stupid, plain glass jar full of folded scraps of colored paper. It looks harmless. Cute, even. Pinteresty.
“I started it in my last job,” I hear myself say. My voice sounds unfamiliar. Worn. “Every time I had a really bad day in the kitchen, I’d write something down and stick it in here. Some reminder that I made it through. Or some quote that made me feel less… worthless.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“So when Marcus yelled,” I continue, staring so hard at the jar the glass blurs, “or made me feel small, or when a service went to hell, and I convinced myself it was all my fault… I’d come home, write something, fold it up, and tell myself if I kept going, it would be worth it.”
The admission opens my chest, and cold rushes in.
“They’re not fortunes,” I add with a humorless laugh. “They’re… receipts. For survival.”
Boone goes very still.
“You were having that many bad days?” he asks softly.
I shrug, the movement jerky. “Everyone does.”
“No. Not like that.”
I swallow hard. My fingers tighten around the slip in my fist.
He nods toward my hand. “What’s that one say?”
I almost lie. Almost make something up. But my cheeks burn, and the truth is already pressing against my teeth.
“It says…” I clear my throat. “It says, ‘Keep going. You haven’t even begun to live yet.’”
Silence.
When I look up, his expression has changed.
