“Okay,” he intones, and I raise my eyebrows in surprise.
“Okay?”
“Yeah, I’ll drop you off and pick you up.”
“And you’ll leave between those times?”
“No.” I laugh and throw my head back, knowing he’s completely serious. The worry rock in my stomach doesn’t go away. The embarrassment from the thought of him hearing our conversation makes me sick, and I push my plate away. I try to smile, try to make it seem like no big deal.
“Stay far enough away so they can’t see or hear you, Havoc,” I say, but more like plead. I’m not a demanding person, and I don’t know how to convey this to him so he understands. I watch his eyes. They hold mine as he waits to answer, and I swear I get some acid reflux in my throat.
“I promise, sweetheart.”
The brunch spotscreams “spend $50 per meal” with black metal chairs and annoyingly cute pink-and-blue cushions. Breakfast and Buns is exactlythe place my parents would frequent, which is why I’ve never been here.
They are already sitting with menus in front of them as I slide into the chair in front of them. My chair of punishment. Might as well be a timeout corner.
My mini skirt does nothing to gain approval, and I think that’s what made me wear it. Seeing Havoc’s lip twitch when I came down in the cream-colored skirt with a tight waistband and pleated ruffles made me feel girly and beautiful, and when he absentmindedly bit his lip, I damn near asked him to take it off.
But that would make me run late, and despite this being my last meeting with my parents, I didn’t want to be late. That’s not who I am.
I wanted to think of them less and think of myself more.
“Noa, so glad you could join us,” my mother murmurs without even looking up at me.
I don’t bother answering, knowing the less I talk, the faster this will go. The moment I sit down, a salad is in front of me, as usual, and the almost white lettuce stares back at me.
It’s not even a good salad. It’s lacking all sorts of color and nutrients; it’s dry lettuce and boiled chicken that’s lacking seasoning. They held the dressing and removed the croutons, I’m sure.
I can’t believe I used to eat this. My eyes gaze around the restaurant as my parents put their menusdown and place their orders. My dad orders a steak at breakfast, and my mother orders a salad. What do they order for me?
Another salad.
I grimace as I pick up my fork to pretend I’m eating it. Thorne has spoiled me, my new life has spoiled me, and I refuse to eat food that doesn’t taste good. My tongue goes dry at the thought of eating this, and I decide then that I’m not.
“So, has the Fallon Pack reached out?” My dad asks, and my face scrunches.
“You didn’t see my house? They more than reached out.” I say, slipping from my earlier mantra of getting through this brunch as fast as possible.
“You shouldn’t have made them mad, honey; you had to know this stint would have consequences.” My mother eats her salad, one delicate bite at a time. I gawk at her as the fork slides the dry salad into her mouth, waiting for any sort of reaction that the food is nasty. Maybe some hope that she sees reality. That she sees how insane it is to force ourselves to eat such things when good food, beautifully made, densely nutritious food, is an option.
She doesn’t. Her face hardly moves from chewing as she bites, swallows, and goes for more.
I—I should have known better. I stare between the two of them, rendered speechless. It’s not that they don’t understand; it’s that they don’t care.
They never did.
“I’m glad you asked me to lunch,” I say, taking a deep breath, and just as I inhale, I’m hit with scents I never wished to smell again.
My mind short-circuits as the smells get stronger. I had this speech running through my head about how I am no longer Noa Odette, that I will no longer be speaking to them, and how I wish I had never heard from them. How I found love, true love, what it means to care for others, and to truly be happy.
But all that ceases as their scents burn my nose.
They’re here. They are at this restaurant. Jackson, Derrick, and Mayfield, all three of them. My eyes search for Havoc’s. He’s here somewhere in the shadows. I know it, but I can’t find him. He’s hidden well, and I regret asking him to sit at a distance.
“You brought them here?” I mutter, standing from my seat, causing a scene I know they’ll hate. Their eyes go wide as they set their forks down. I see the tick of a grumble in my father’s face, but I’m well past the age of caring. He can’t hurt me. None of them can. I won’t allow it.
I’m not the meek doll they once knew. I’m not alone, and I’m not weak.
