Honestly, I try really hard not to be angry.Liam brings it out in me.
No.Stay positive.Silver linings and all that.
I return my focus to my sandwich making.I’ve got it down to a science.Well-toasted whole wheat, a thin layer of vegan butter on each slice, peanut butter, and then strawberry jam.Always strawberry.Then a sprinkle of sea salt.
Liam tells me all the time how my way of making a PB&J is an insult to sandwiches, but honestly it’s one of my favorite things.It’sso good, in a place where good things are hard to find.
“Thanks for ordering dinner,” I tell him.Because I do realize it was a thoughtful thing to do, even if Liam is generally kind of a dick.“Maybe I’ll have some tomorrow.”
Not that I can stomach the spices lately.Tomorrow I might.
“Sit down and eat a real meal for a change,” he grits out.
“I’d honestly really like to do that, Liam, but my digestive system hasn’t been great since the accident.I’m sorry, but I don’t feel like I can handle a spicy meal right now.”
That sounded mature.Right?
“I talked to the owner.Told him you weren’t feeling well.He said he’d make it mild.”He glares at me as if I should be grateful for the effort he’s gone to on my behalf.
I do have to acknowledge the effort.
Except the owner of Spice Road Grill knows us, and he knows I’m Indian.Indian mild isn’t mild-mild, which Liam ought to know.
“Thank you.Maybe tomorrow,” I say again.
There’s always a sour taste in the back of my throat when I thank him for things, because I’m not convinced he’s ever doing them to actually be nice.It’s obligation.
I’man obligation.That’s all I’ve ever been.
“What the fuck ever, kid,” he mutters under his breath.
Liam and I didn’t always clash the way we do now.At first he at least—sort of grudgingly—taught me things.How to shoot a gun and some self-defense stuff.How to change a tire.Even hung out with me when I was sick or struggling.Which is probably how I got so attached.
Still, it’s always been clear my presence was inconvenient.I’m not sure what it says about me that I developed a crush on him anyway.
I probably ought to research Stockholm syndrome.
“How is your digestion going to get any better if you’re eating the same damn food every day?”
“I had a smoothie earlier.”At lunch I tried getting a burrito on campus.Couldn’t even take more than a bite.Lesson learned.
“Ravi.”His clenched fist lands on the counter, bringing my gaze up to his.“When are you going to take responsibility for your actions?What happened to you wasn’t an accident.You ran naked into a drug warehouse.You nearly died.”
There’s a sinking sensation in my stomach.Does he think I don’t know?“Newsflash, Liam: it’s not like I wanted to die.How was I supposed to know there were drugs in there?”
His face reddens, but he doesn’t answer.
I slam the knife into my sandwich a little too enthusiastically, cutting it diagonally into triangles.It’s how my mom always used to cut my sandwiches.They don’t taste the same otherwise.
Liam yanks open a cabinet door with a huff and starts plopping rice and spicy chickpeas onto the plate he pulls out.The smell of the samosas almost gets me to reconsider, but they’re deep fried, and nope.My stomach rebels at the mere thought of all that oil.
“You’ve got to grow up, Ravi.You keep doing impulsive, reckless shit like this?You’re going to end up like your parents.”
He doesn’t understand.I do reckless shitbecauseof how my parents ended up.
What’s the point of being responsible and safe when you might be gone tomorrow?
“I’m not a married man who’s sleeping with a mentally unstable art student,” I argue.“It’s not even close to the same thing.”
