Total pages in book: 179
Estimated words: 170878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 170878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
One of the few ways Beau and I were similar.
One of the only ways.
Since I managed to summon manners, smiles and general human decency.
“Did you know it’s eight days until my birthday?” Clara asked once she’d taken a large swallow, holding up nine fingers.
I gingerly walked to the coffee pot, giving Beau a large berth and keeping my eye on Hannah.
I held my breath against his lingering scent, mixed with pancakes and maple syrup.
“Hmmmm.” I thrummed my chin. “Eight days, really?” I poured my coffee. “And you’ll be, what? Eighteen?”
Clara rolled her eyes good-naturedly, as if she were humoring my joke much above her station. “Five.” She held up as many fingers before she resumed eating her pancakes.
“Five.” I tapped my head. “Remember, Clara’s fifth birthday is in eight days,” I mimed cementing the date as if I hadn’t already. As if I hadn’t been preparing for weeks.
“How many people are coming to the party, Daddy?” Hannah turned to ask him.
“Thirteen or thereabouts.” He gave her the same response he had the numerous other times she’d asked the question.
Her eyes lit up. That was the most people she’d be around since the transplant. Pre-approved by her doctor, who said that as long as it was outside and she was masked, she could have a small gathering.
“Thirteen,” she repeated in awe. “Thirteen presents.”
“You don’t get a present for everyone attending,” Beau growled. But not his real growl, the one he gave me that was full of menace and meanness. No, this was a faux growl, meant to sound mean but we all knew there was nothing behind it. “Your birthday is not about presents. It’s about celebrating, spending time with family and friends.”
Hannah nodded somberly.
“And presents,” I mouthed to her.
She grinned into her pancakes.
“Here. Sit. Eat.”
A plate of pancakes was placed in front of me with no ceremony, the plate coming down so heavily on the counter, I was surprised it didn’t crack.
I glanced over at Beau. He was already across the kitchen from me, as if he were trying to stay as far away from me as possible.
Then I looked at the plate of pancakes in front of me.
It wasn’t just pancakes with a square of butter on top like I was used to from IHOP—the only time I had pancakes made for me by someone else.
No, these were perfectly shaped, covered with a berry compote, and what appeared to be cream or yogurt on the side. It looked restaurant-quality. Which shouldn’t have surprised me since Beau was a chef.
A lot of care had gone into the plate, going directly against every other time Beau interacted with me—like I was annoying him by simply existing. By being in his house.
If he was home at mealtimes, he cooked for Clara. No mac and cheese cups, nothing packaged. All homemade, healthy, beyond delicious. Kinds of foods I’d never heard of before, that I’d never been able to afford, that I couldn’t have even dreamed of.
The best cuts of steaks, colorful salads full of texture and homemade dressing. The freshest fish I’d ever eaten. Lobster rolls on bread made by Beau first thing in the morning. Lobster everything, since it was the family business. Clara rarely had the same thing twice in a row. Every day was a new culinary adventure for her. And if he cooked for Clara, he cooked for me too.
At the start, I’d been thankful and touched, thinking it was a good sign in the progression of our relationship toward cordiality.
I was wrong.
Beau presented the food to me in much the same way as the pancakes, begrudgingly, as if someone were holding a gun to his head.
I’d tried to gently tell him he didn’t need to cook for me, that I’d take care of myself. I’d quickly given up on that because of the flat glares I got in response. They were so full of hostility, fury, that they made me shrink back, trying to make myself as small and quiet as possible. It made me angry, furious, that he managed to have that kind of power over me. And I was embarrassed that I let him treat me that way. That I didn’t leave, or at the very least speak up for myself.
If I wanted to be petty, I could’ve refused to eat them. But that would’ve been criminal because Beau was a seriously good chef. I grew up on things that came out of a package and had to be microwaved. I’d taught myself how to ‘cook’ out of necessity. I wasn’t exactly good, but I was passable.
When I moved in with Waylon, he expected me to cook. I’d tried to experiment with the Julia Child’s book I’d found at Goodwill, but he’d thrown the plate of Boeuf Bourguignon against the wall and told me not to feed him that “snobby French bullshit” again.