Page 31 of Love What's Left
She tilts her head slightly to the side. “You’re a strange person.”
“Well, now that’s just mean,” I drawl.
“You know, then. About food. And me,” she says.
My smile falters. When she doesn’t say more, I lean closer. “Can you tell me what you mean by that?”
“There was never enough when I was a kid.” She shows me the old white scar on her left thumb. “Dad went on a bender when I was four. Gone almost a week. Had to use a knife to o-open a can of peaches. Ihatepeaches.” She shudders. “I smell them and . . . think of blood. I almost d-died eating spoiled food when I was s-six because there was n-nothing else.”
I straighten, my brows coming together, then I blow out a small breath. How could I not have known? But even as a rhetorical question, it’s a stupid one. She never spoke to me about anything related to her father, unless it was to accuse me of being like him. “I’m sorry I teased you with food. It wasn’t funny.”
“But I got even,” she says.
“You always do.” I scoop a spoonful of chicken noodle soup into my mouth, then offer her a bite. She accepts easily, and we work our way through the meal.
When she’s had enough, she lifts a hand. “Full.”
I nod, then finish the remainder myself, feeling her intent gaze on my face the entire time. If I were a self-conscious person, her unwavering attention on me while I eat would be unnerving. But I’m not. And if she wants to watch me like I’m on an episode from something on Animal Planet, I see no problem with it. Maybe she’s trying to remember. Maybe she’s trying to get comfortable with me.
“I stole your bed,” she says abruptly.
I shake my head. “You can’t steal something that belongs to you.”
“Where will you sleep?”
I freeze with the spoon halfway to my mouth, then force myself to finish, chew, swallow, then speak. “I planned to sleep next to you.”
“Oh.”
I set down my spoon and sip from the glass of ice water. Then I force myself to offer, “I can move to the guest room across the hall if you prefer.”
She chews on the dry skin of her bottom lip, her gaze darting to the doorway, then back to my face. “Your bed is big.”
I nod.
“A whole person could f-fit between us.”
“Yes,” I agree.
“I’m used to s-sleeping in the same room with you,” she says.
“True.”
She scowls. “You stay. If you make me have sex, I’ll stab you when you sleep.”
Breathe. Fucking breathe, dickhead.“I would never hurt you like that. And if anyone else tried, I’d sharpen the knife and hold him for you.”
She eyes the gold band on my left hand. “I don’t have a ring.”
I can’t tell if that’s an accusation in her voice or merely curiosity.
“You lost them while you were gone. I’ll get you another set. I can have them here in an hour.” I’d have given her new rings weeks ago if I hadn’t worried it would upset her.
She shakes her head. “Don’t.”
I swallow my disappointment.
Her gazedrifts to the window, and she stares, unfocused and unmoving for long moments before she turns back to face me. “Where are the c-clothes I was wearing when you found me?”
