Page 170 of A Taste of Vanilla

I exhale softly. “Halston.”

“No, don’t Halston me in your scary bread voice.”

“My what?”

“Your voice when you think you’re right.”

“I am right.”

Her laugh is furious.

“You’re in pain, Halston.”

“I’m always in pain, Warren!”

The words stop me.

“It’s just a matter of how fucking much.”

Her hands curl at her sides, the sweatshirt slipping farther off her shoulder and exposing the thin strap and delicate skin beneath. I look at her face, and only her face.

“I’m always negotiating with something,” she argues. “Pain. Money. Customers. Vendors. My body. My ex. His family. My own stupid brain telling me that maybe I was only successful because Barrett Whitaker decided to pat me on the head in print. So when I’m standing in my kitchen at midnight making glaze, maybe it isn’t efficient, but it’s mine.”

Mine.

I grew up with very little that belonged to me. Space didn’t. Quiet didn’t. Money certainly didn’t. My time stopped belonging to me once Marley needed more than our father could give. My choices didn’t, not really. Not if I wanted my sister safe. Not if I wanted food in our house. Not if I wanted the lights to stay on.

I lower my voice. “I know it’s yours.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Because sometimes it feels like you’re looking for the parts you can fix until there’s nothing left that looks like me.”

I close my eyes, letting myself feel it.

I hate myself for causing her to think that.

“I don’t want less of you in here,” I say.

She looks away.

“I mean it.”

“You say my schedule is a crime. And my storage. And my specials create demand spikes that I can’t account for.”

“But none of that means less of you.”

I step closer, and the air shifts again. The fight changes shape. The anger stays, but heat rises, familiar and unwelcome. Her cheeks are pink, her eyes bright and angry, and her mouth trembles.

Her sweatshirt is still off her shoulder.

Her voice drops. “Do you want less of me?”

My hand flexes at my side.

The correct answer is simple. No.