Page 165 of A Taste of Vanilla

No one asks it like that. People ask if I need anything. People tell me to eat. People offer random things that sound soothing and make me want to die.

Warren asks like he wants to follow orders correctly.

“Toast,” I say after a second. “A banana. Sometimes rice. Eggs if they’re plain. Nothing too greasy. Nothing too sweet when it’s this bad.”

He nods once. “And pain meds?”

I reach for the bottle he set down on the table, and he unscrews the cap on my water bottle. I throw two pills back as he takes out his phone.

“What are you doing?”

Setting a timer to go off in four hours so we make sure you take more.

I close my eyes. “I hate this.”

“I know.”

“I really hate needing help.”

“I’m aware.”

“I hate that everyone is going to think I’m scared of Barrett.”

Warren is silent for a second. Then, he says, “Barrett Whitaker doesn’t get an opinion on your pain.”

My eyes jump up to his. They’re steely.

“No customer gets one either,” he says. “No vendor. No man who benefited from your work. No one.”

My throat closes. “Warren.”

“You’re in pain. We adjust the schedule. That’s all.”

That’s all.

It’s not a tragedy or a spectacle or proof that I’m not worthy.

It’s simply a schedule adjustment.

My vision blurs. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It’s not.”

“No?”

“No. It’s just not shameful.”

I press my lips together, but the first tear falls anyway. And then another. I look down quickly, struggling to hide the tears.

He doesn’t panic. He doesn’t even come closer.

“I don’t want to be smaller,” I whisper.

His voice is low. “You’re not.”

“I feel like it.”

“That’s okay.”