He turns off the engine and makes a big show of doing calculations in his head, biting his lip in thought and using his index finger to write down invisible sums on the palm of his other hand. I patiently wait for him to finish his theatrics and try to hold back my grin.
He eventually nods. “One hundred pounds a month.”
“That barely covers today’s shopping!”
“Are you doubting my maths skills, Til? Do you want to check my work?” He shows me the palm he’d been pretending to write on. “See – the sums don’t lie.” He gets out of the car and walks to the boot. Apparently, this is not up for discussion.
I decide not to press the issue, and give up for now. I’ve known Connor long enough to know how stubborn he can be. But it occurs to me that I’m now living (temporarily) with a different Connor to the one I grew up with. Maybe this Connor isn’t as stubborn as a mule? But which Connor is the real one? Original or new model?
By the time we’ve put the food away, it’s time for lunch. Connor offers to make me a bacon sandwich, but I decline and opt for a salad instead. I pull out the digital scales I brought from Rhys’s, put a bowl on top and start to weigh out my ingredients.First the lettuce, then cucumber, tomatoes and green bell pepper. I track the weight of each one, on my app, to the gram as I go.
“You weigh your salad?”
I’ve been concentrating so hard on logging the pepper correctly I didn’t notice Connor watching me from across the kitchen.
“Yeah, I log everything I eat and drink.”
“Why?”
Here we go.
“To make sure I don’t go over my calories,” I say quickly, letting my hair fall in front of my face as a barrier between us.
“I have questions.” He runs a hand over his face like he’s bracing himself for the conversation.
“Please just one at a time, I’m trying to concentrate.”
I start chopping the vegetables I’ve already weighed. After a minute, which I assume Connor spends deciding which question to ask first, he finally speaks.
“How many calories are you allocated each day?”
Okay, not an unreasonable question. I can handle this one.
“Twelve hundred.” I continue chopping cucumber into bite-sized pieces.
“And who decided on that number?” There’s a bite to his voice that I choose to ignore.
“Rhys did some research and recommended it.” I reach for the piece of pepper and cut it up.
“Why are you restricting what you eat?”
Because I’m a disgusting fat pig and no other diets have worked for me.
“Because I’m trying to get to a healthy weight. Can you pass me the chicken, please?” I try to act casual and hope he drops the subject, but he doesn’t.
“Reducing your calories that drastically doesn’t seem to be the healthiest way to do that. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with your weight. Didn’t Rhys ever tell you that?”
Shit. I don’t want to talk about this anymore, but I doubt Connor will make it easy for me to change the topic, and outright avoid answering him. He’s always been stubborn, even when we were kids. Panicking, and seeing no other way out of having an uncomfortable conversation, I do something impulsive and, if I’m being honest, a little dramatic.
“Ow!” I hiss as the knife I was using to slice tomatoes nicks my ring finger. I don’t know why it surprised me when the finger I intentionally cut with a sharp knife hurt, but there we go. I raise it to my mouth as beads of blood drip from the cut and land, frustratingly, on my freshly chopped salad.
Connor crosses the kitchen in two strides and takes my finger from my mouth to examine it. I only made a small cut, but a pool of blood is forming on the skin around it. He frowns at the cut and gently presses a paper towel to it to stop the bleeding.
I try to pull my finger back. “It’s only tiny.”
“It still needs a plaster.”
Connor keeps holding my hand in his as he uses his other to reach for the first aid box from the kitchen windowsill. He removes the paper towel, uses an antiseptic wipe to clean the cut and carefully covers it with a blue plaster. His fingers pass over my wedding and engagement rings as he works. It’s the first time I’ve thought about them since I left Rhys, and I realise I’m not sure what to do with them. Should I take them off? Give them back? Throw them into the sea? Or should I keep wearing them? Connor is still holding my hand, and I notice that he’s looking at my rings too.
