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I don’t like it.
When we reach the checkout, I see her discreetly checking through the bills in her wallet to make sure she has enough. Her lips move silently as she counts and recounts the cash as if she doesn’t quite trust her judgment.
I don’t know why that makes me angry and restless.
As soon as the cashier states the amount in a bored voice, I don’t hesitate. Quickly slipping out my wallet, I take out my card and swipe it on the machine.
Eve stares at that, her eyes widening fractionally. “What are you doing?”
I keep my face passive, betraying none of the turmoil and conflicted feelings that roil like a mass of twisted snakes underneath the surface. “Just picking up the check.”
“This isn’t a restaurant,” Eve grits her teeth. “And there is no check. I didn’t ask you to pay for the groceries.”
I wonder if she knows that the calm and cool exterior that she is trying to present to me is cracking as I keep pushing.
I give her a small half smile as I neatly pluck the bill out of the cashier’s hands before she can make a grab for it. “Well, I did.”
Her jaw tightens. “Well, I’ll pay you back then.”
I will be damned if I take her money.
By the time I drop her home in the afternoon, there is a black cloud over Eve’s head. Maybe when I told her I intended to pay for the repairs to the car, that might have made things worse.
“I’ll come by tomorrow with the paperwork,” I tell her, referring to the child support agreement. I want it to be documented and legalized.
She doesn’t move from her seat, staring ahead at her building, a frown on her face.
“Eve?”
She angles her head slightly to look at me.
“I don’t need your money, Zayn,” she says calmly.
She is struggling to sound pragmatic and not sink her nails into my skin.
I am pushing into her space, crowding her with taking control of the small things, things that wouldn’t have mattered in any other situation, but right now, I am throwing her off balance, and she clearly wants to resist my attempts.
“I’m not after your money,” she repeats, evenly. “Child support is Mila’s right. Aside from that, groceries, whatnot, I don’t need you for that.”
“I know you don’t,” I reply, my tone measured, my gaze sweeping over her tight face.
A deliberate pause.
“Does it honestly bother you that much to give up control, even a little bit, on the simplest of things?”
An observation of her life, of the rigidity of her routine, gives away things about her that she covers with an acerbic tongue.
Eve has such tight control over herself and her life that it almost seems like a desperate attempt to protect what she has. I wonder when she adopted such a trait. She was never like this before.
Her head jerks up in shock that she tries to cover, but I see the brief panic in her eyes before she covers it frostily. “We’re not a family unit. Your pitching in isn’t required.”
She opens the car door, not waiting for an answer.
I watch her carry the groceries inside the building, and I know that any attempt to offer her assistance won’t be well received.
I tap my fingers on the edge of the steering wheel, thoughtfully.
The pulsing bass of the club music is muted inside my soundproof office as I blindly stare at the documents in front of me. Mila’s birth certificate, her medical records. Eve’s medical records.
