“Then how do you know so much about it?”
He glances at me before looking back at the road. “I just like computers.”
“Well, I think it’s cool. Parker really looks up to you.”
Landon doesn’t say anything in response to that, but the silence in the car doesn’t feel threatening for once.
“You can use the kitchen,” he says out of the blue.
My eyes slide to his profile. “What?”
“You can use the kitchen,” he repeats. “I was in a shit mood when I told you that you couldn’t. Use it to bake Parker’s cake. Or, for anything. It’s fine.”
“I appreciate that,” I say, “but I’ll be in my new apartment soon. Thank you, though.”
Landon doesn’t respond, but his fingers tighten on the wheel. Just a little.
For some reason, I’d give anything to hear what he’s thinking. Anything at all.
* * *
I’m exhausted at work the next day. I haven’t been sleeping well since Mel left, tossing and turning until the early hours of the morning, and last night was no exception. But it’s more than that. This day’s been hovering over me for a while now, a dark storm cloud threatening rain, though I’ve been doing my best to bring the sunshine. There are no sunbeams in sight today.
Running on four hours of sleep, I feel like I’m moving through quicksand as I deliver orders to the Sunday brunch crowd. The Blair family is seated in my section, ofcourse, so I plaster on a tired smile and greet them with warmth and enthusiasm I don’t possess.
“Good to see you again, Violet,” says Nathan, like he didn’t accuse me of leeching off his son a week ago.
“You too, Mr. Blair,” I lie.
“I’ll have the egg-white vegetable omelet,” snaps Kathleen, clearly annoyed by Nathan’s remark.
“Of course,” I say. “Would you like me to ask them to hold the olives?”
She glances up at me sharply. “Why would I want that?”
My smile falters. Am I remembering wrong? Am I that tired? I have to stop myself from glancing at Landon for verification that I’m not insane, because I’m ninety-nine percent certain that she threw a fit about the olives last time. “Oh, my mistake,” I say hurriedly. “Anything to drink?”
“Cappuccino. Non-fat.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I move on to Landon’s dad.
“Eggs benedict. Non-fat latte,” he says, making it clear that just because he grilled me about my life and my home and my family doesn’t mean I deserve any extra pleasantries, though I bet that’s par for the course with him.
I turn to Junior, who’s studying me over the rim of his water glass. “Bloody Mary and the American Breakfast. So, is it true you’re living with my brother?”
“Junior,” snaps Kathleen.
“Watch it,” growls Landon at the same time.
Junior holds his hands up. “What? Was no one going to address the elephant in the room?” My eyes shift between Landon and his brother, awkward and unsure of what to say or do. “No one else thinks this is a fucked up situation? Dad? Mom?”
“Drop it, Junior,” snaps Landon. “Let her do her job, for fuck’s sake.” He turns to me. “I’ll take a black coffee and an egg-white omelet.” I take down his order, not at all expecting the next words that come out of his mouth. “Thank you.”
Thank you.
I nearly choke, my eyes flashing to his, becauseexcuse me?Did Dr. Difficult just say those two magic words that were so elusive to him in the past? Have I entered some kind of alternate reality? How did he know that I needed that recognition today of all days?
