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Sushi was probably not even going to touch the level of discomfort I’d just created between us. Guilt and anxiety gut checked me like a linebacker, and I shifted uneasily, glancing to the door and wondering where she was. If she was okay. Anxiety wasn’t new to me—I think I was born with it. This compulsive need to check and recheck, to guess and second guess every minute detail of my life. Maybe it was a byproduct of two abnormally productive parents, but maybe it was just…me. Which meant that awful hollow burrowing sensation in my stomach was undeniably the beginning of a spiral. I should never have made her second guess herself. Should never have suggested that of the two of us, she should be the one to bow out.
It was those thoughts that were interrupted by the late-night electronic chirp of the lock followed by the heavy creek of the metal door. I was prepared for her to come in looking as uncomfortable as I felt, or even to burst into the room ready for round two. Instead, she didn’t even bother to glance my way, her hair mussed, headphones in her ears as she balanced a restaurant serving tray on her hand, a drink in the other as she gracefully spun into the room, bopping to music I couldn’t hear.
The nod she gave me seemed no more significant than a frat bro sup and, bewildered, I sat up to assess the firecracker now wordlessly settling into the little corner table where they’d stacked generic postcards and notebooks with hotel branded pens that no one had ever used even once in hotel guest history.
Looking content with herself, Pix scooted everything aside so that she could spread out her food. My eyes shot to the mini fridge, mouth making to form the words but falling short. El. Hey. How are you? I grabbed you a snack, although it appears you came prepared. I’m sorry for being a colossal shit sandwich. Something. Anything. Instead, a thick silence settled between us, awkwardly filling the space. Or…it was awkward to me, because El looked entirely at ease as she neatly lined out her dinner, headphones still playing some sort of symphony worth subtly swaying to.
Watching her slowly unclip the tacky plastic lid from a hot sauce container, I thought back to all the times we’d retreat from the chaos of the Rhodes house, just the two of us, hiding in the other’s silence. El could chatter just as much as the rest of them, but she had this inherent sense for when the insanity overwhelmed me, and I needed quiet. Something Jameson understood, but Rhyett had never comprehended. To him, the more the merrier. A dozen siblings, and he was always the first to invite extras in.
It had been her companionable silence in which I found my home. She scowled, the abrupt change in her expression pulling me from my reverie as she set her sauce ramekin down in favor of a brown napkin, which she promptly dabbed in water and took to her shirt, where red sauce had splattered. With a huff, she scooted back on the wheelie armchair, and slowly reached for the hem of her sweater, slipping slender fingers beneath the fabric before scraping it up and over her torso, revealing bare, tan skin and a form-fitting short camisole cropped above a belly button ring I sure as hell hadn’t ever seen before.
My swallow ached right along with my jaw as I clenched it, sending my gaze skyward. Taxation is theft. The government is corrupt. Morality is a matter of perspective. Polar bears are starving. Jameson would beat me to death if he knew I just got hard watching his baby sister take her sweater off to prevent a stain.
Seriously—what the hell was wrong with me?
Replaying Brexley’s words in my mind, I blew out what I hoped was a calming breath, sliding free from bed and wandering over to the fridge, attempting to channel an inner nonchalance that hadn’t existed since the siren in front of me hit puberty.
She paused her stain dabbing to glance my way as I knelt and retrieved the sushi container. I set it on the table beside her plethora of options, nudging it toward her as she held my gaze. Those Rhodes blues narrowed slightly as she gingerly plucked an ear bud out.
“That a peace offering?” she questioned dryly, surveying the little carton. I smirked at her wording, knowing full well that’s exactly what this was. She seemed to finally notice what was playing on the television as well, her eyes flying to the side of the room as she removed the second headphone.
“That depends… Is it working?”
One dark brow arched as her gaze flicked back down to the sushi. The presentation wasn’t Michelin-star by any means, but it wasn’t exactly convenience store quality either. Drizzled in some kind of house-special aioli, they hadn’t held back and delivered it with an abundance of soy sauce, pickled ginger, and wasabi. Good. At least one thing in my favor.
Eyes narrowed in accusation, she gingerly pressed her own box closed, grabbing the chop sticks, and snapping them apart in one only semi-aggressive motion. She twirled them between her fingers before plucking up a piece and popping it between her lips in one bite, chewing slowly as she eyed me. Holding her gaze should have won me an award. Seriously, Medusa could take notes. But I saw the flicker of satisfaction as the flavors finally hit her tongue. Saw the memories spark in her eyes, like I knew they would, because some invisible wall seemed to dissolve within them.
“Maybe,” she begrudgingly admitted around her mouthful of rice and smoked salmon. “Depends on what follows up the cream cheese and seaweed.”
“I’m sorry,” I blurted out gruffly, irritated with myself all over again. “I didn’t mean it. Not the way it came out. That was a dick move, and we both know it.”
“Continue,” she prompted, pinching another piece with her chopsticks before poking them toward me.
“I’m not an imbecile, El. I’ve seen how hard you’ve worked. So have your older siblings—none of them would ever insinuate your success was anything other than earned.” I dipped my head to capture her gaze. “That was super shitty. And…I’m sorry.”
Her eyes widened incrementally before she jerked them to her food, throat working around a swallow. “Good sushi,” she said softly, scooting her prior meal aside in favor of the carton. That had to be a good sign, right—a kind of acceptance? Was that hoping for too much, too quickly? Smiling, I took the chair beside her and snatched up the second pair of chopsticks, cracking them apart and swooping in for a piece, smirking when she slid the box away from me, eyes wide beneath arched brows as the corners of her lips twitched. The expression spelled out her sentiment exactly—excuse me?
Fighting a smile, I reached forward again, only for her to slide it farther away, her eyes narrowing to slits, a hand poised to slap mine away as she said, “Thin ice, Professor. Thin. Ice.”
Chuckling darkly, I gingerly placed the chopsticks on a napkin between us before raising my hands in surrender. She smiled as she returned the tray to the center of the table, and I put a safe amount of space between me and the evidently off-limits peace offering.
“So,” she said around the next mouthful. “What’s your strategy for presentations tomorrow?”
“Really think we should hash out battle strategy together?” I countered, my chair creaking as I slowly rocked in it to dispel some of the extra energy seeping from my body.
“Like I would bother to adjust mine the night before. I’ve had this thing planned down to the second for weeks.”
Holding her stare, I thought long and hard before saying, “Mine is highly statistic motivated. For our population size, we have an unacceptable number of young people with criminal records. That’s my angle.”
Nodding, chopsticks pointed my direction as though demanding an answer, she said, “Kind of like a Big Brothers, Big Sisters idea?”
“Kind of,” I allowed, leaning down to fish a sparkling water out of the mini fridge. Cracking the lid off the glass bottle, I said, “I want to make sure we have the funding to bring on tutors and keep a good ratio between kids and counselors. Nutrient-dense food, so the kids who don’t go home to hot meals have somewhere they can drop in and fill their bellies with more than vending machine food.”
A furrow implanted between her brows, and she ran her tongue over her front teeth as she created a wasabi-soy sauce mix in the tray. Stirring the concoction with her chopsticks, she admitted, “It’s a noble cause, Brod.”
“So is the school,” I pointed out quietly. Those steel blues lanced me to my chair as she twirled her next bite in her wasabi sauce concoction that made my sinuses burn just looking at it. I could do with a little bit here and there, but she really soaked it on there. Evaluation evidently over, she nodded. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way, right?”
“Absolutely.” A delicate, one shoulder shrug.
