“You will take the other two. Maybe they will be different,” Nikita says into my shoulder, but I know what they will say.
36
MIKHAIL
It would be enough for Taylor to not drink her coffee. I know that people change. Even if it has only been less than two months in my home, Taylor is young, and I expect her to change plenty of times while I know her. But she has quit drinking it and is trying to hide that from me.
She sits across from me at breakfast with both hands wrapped around the cup, lifting it occasionally without bringing it near her mouth. I watch this happen three times before accusing her. “You are not drinking that.”
Taylor looks at the cup as though she has forgotten it exists. “I’m getting to it.”
“It is cold.”
“I like cold coffee.”
“No, you do not.”
“I didn’t realize my coffee habits were under government surveillance,” she says.
“They are not.”
“Then stop monitoring them.”
I glance at her untouched breakfast. “You are not eating either.”
“I ate.”
“You moved a strawberry.”
“It was a large strawberry.”
I stare at her, and she sighs loudly, crying out, “Oh my God, fine, here!” She grabs a handful of strawberries and shoves them into her mouth, caps and all. She chews them roughly and smiles, juice leaking down her chin. “Happy?”
My mother turns a page of her newspaper. She has been unusually quiet this morning. That is rarely a good sign.
“What is wrong with you?” I ask Taylor, confused by this display of mania, catching her wrist as she goes for another handful of strawberries. “Stop.”
Taylor’s eyes lift to mine. There are shadows beneath them. Her skin is pale, and she has tied her hair back carelessly, leaving several loose strands around her face. She looks tired. She has looked tired for days. Maybe weeks.
“Do you feel ill?”
“No.”
“You look ill.”
“Thank you.”
“It was not an insult.”
“Then you need more practice with compliments.”
She stands, carrying her cup with her.
“You used to have wine with dinner,” I say.
Taylor stops. “What?”
“You have refused it three nights in a row.”