Page 11 of A Taste of Vanilla

I want someone to look at me and not see a problem to manage. Not see someone who is too much. A woman who needs smoothing down before she can be loved properly. I want to feel like a person again. Not evidence. Not failure. Not an almost-wife. A woman. A wanted woman.

Oliver’s expression softens in the way it tends to when he’s about to say something he hates meaning. “You don’t need to prove that tonight.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“No,” I admit. “But I’d like to remember it.”

He looks at me for a long moment before reaching for my glass. He sniffs it, frowns at whatever remains, and pours it into the sink. “You’re done,” he says as I open my mouth.

“I’m in my healing era.”

“Your healing era can continue with water.”

“My healing era hates water.”

“Your healing era is one bad decision from crying in the alley.”

“I have dignity.”

“You asked whether an imaginary housewife got cheated on.”

I can’t argue that one.

He slides a tall glass of water toward me, and I drink it. Oliver is right, and I hate when he knows he’s right, which is, unfortunately, almost always.

A cheer erupts from the Vipers’ table. Oliver’s face pinches. “You know,” I say, “for someone who hates sports, you seem to profit a lot from large sweaty men.”

His eyes narrow. “Every day I wake up and carry that burden.”

“You’re so brave.”

I eye them a little more, noticing the blonde one with green eyes as he comes up to the bar and orders another beer.

I watch him go, and look at Oliver. “He’s cute.”

“No.”

“What?”

“No.”

“I didn’t ask anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I’m allowed to notice men who are cute.”

“Notice them silently.”

I frown. “I’m single now.”

“You’re wounded now,” he reminds me.

“I can be both.”

“You can be both tomorrow.”