Have I ever done the same?
Once, when I was pissed with him, I considered salting the cup, but thought the unadulterated drink was scarier, leaving him wondering what I would do for payback.
I never got payback.
The microwave beeps, and I pull out my food, the bowl hot enough that I half throw it onto the island.
“Are you eating a bowl of vegetables for breakfast?”
“It didn’t sound terrible, so yeah.”
His lips twist, but he reaches into the fridge and pulls out the same containers I did, dumping the last of the rice and veggies into another bowl.
“If you think it’s gross, don’t eat it.”
He shrugs. “One less decision today.”
“You have a lot of decisions today?”
He turns away, walking to the curtained windows, springy and sunshiny in yellow. And new. The guys must have gotten them while we were gone.
The coffee maker spits out the last of the water, and I pour us both cups.
When I hand it to him, his lips turn down, and he still won’t look at me. But he takes the cup.
I add milk and the fancy rose syrup Emma got me, then shove everything over to the side of the island, making room for Trips to warm up his bowl of vegetables.
When the microwave dings, he grabs his food but ends up with the bowl on the counter, a curse escaping under his breath. He stares at the cup and bowl like they’ve wronged him, then gets the tray and loads it up, shuffling it so he’s only gripping with one hand, the other balancing it underneath.
His hands. He busted his hands. Worse than I’d realized.
He did it to himself.
He goes to move past me, but I reach out, touching his arm, not ready for him to pull away. Even that little touch stings. Maybe not outside, but inside, it tears at my heart.
I’m stronger than this. I keep bending, I’ve been broken, but I’m still here. “Stay. Eat. We need to figure out how to coexist.”
I wait, and after I’ve managed two bites out of my bowl, he slides onto the stool the farthest from me, his gaze locked on his food.
“So,” I say, not sure how to start this. How to start over. “We have new curtains.”
He looks around the room. “Yeah.” He picks up his fork, winces, and sets it down.
I try to figure out where to go from there, but he cuts into my thoughts.
“I’m sorry, Clara.” He pushes back from the island, and vanishes from the room, the shuffle of his feet up the stairs so different from his usual stomp that it’s like a stranger in the house.
Right now, he is a stranger.
And if I can’t figure out a way to fix this, I’m marrying this strange version of Trips in a few months.
“Damn it,” I mutter, taking another bite of veggies.
RJ steps out from the back hallway, that new rage still clear in the twist of his lips, but a soft smile takes its place when he shifts his attention from the front of the house to me. “You’re eating,” he proclaims, like it’s the most wonderful thing he’s seen in months.
“I’m eating,” I say, frustrated that I worried him so much. That I worried them all so much.
“Good. Can I get you anything else? Eggs?”
