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Fergus just sticks his middle finger in the air, not even bothering to look over his shoulder.
He turns to me, and I see how his shoulders are relaxed. Then he leans back in his chair and studies me. “You don’t want to go to the barbeque.”
It is a statement, not a question.
I glance over my shoulder to see Mila jumping into the ball pit and then say in a low voice, “I don’t think it’s a good idea, yet: me meeting your friends.”
Zayn studies the fork before him, picking it up and examining it in the cloying ray of sunlight. The metal fork glints, making it look like gold, and Zayn’s voice is light. “Do you think they’d look down on you?”
I narrow my eyes. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about their opinion about me, Zayn. They can look down on me, look up at me, look sideways, and I still wouldn’t care.”
“Why not?” he asks, quietly. “You’ve worked your ass off to be where you are right now. Why shouldn’t you show it off?”
The way he phrases it throws me off and I stare at him, bewildered, my protests stuck in my throat. “W-what?”
He makes an impatient noise and puts down the fork. “You’ve singlehandedly raised our child. You jumpstarted a business venture. You’re doing well for yourself. Why aren’t you proud of all your achievements? I am.”
“W-what?” I repeat, stupidly.
Zayn is proud? Of me?
What the hell for?
I feel like I am being patronized and at the same time, I feel this tingling in my chest, one that I don’t want to put a name to.
“I’m not ashamed of myself,” I say, finally, not knowing what else to say.
“I didn’t say you’re ashamed,” he replies, and there is a gentleness to his tone that wasn’t there before and it makes me angry.
It makes me angry because he’s being not Zayn and I don’t know how to handle this side of him that isn’t sarcastic or broody or arrogant.
It makes me angry because I am starting to doubt this impression of Zayn that I have in my head, one that he is slowly tearing down over these past two weeks. Because if there is nothing left for me to resent, there is just wild lust and attraction and I don’t want to get into a relationship with him.
No, I want to keep him at arm’s length.
A vivid memory of being pushed against the wall, a threatening hand on my evident baby bump as crude words were panted into my ear.
My hands tremble, and I hide them under the table.
No, I am not ready for a relationship with anyone.
Isn’t that why I worked myself to the bone to ensure that I never had to depend on anybody but myself? Isn’t that why I had casual sex sometimes just to handle the urges and never stayed the night?
Isn’t that why I control every aspect of my life with such precision while maintaining my carefree mask, not even letting my closest friend penetrate past it to see the real me who trusts no one?
In this world, I am the only one who can protect myself.
I must have been drowning in my thoughts because Zayn clears his throat, making me jolt.
“You’ve gone somewhere, Eve,” he says, almost accusingly.
I tilt my chin up, my mask firmly back in place. “If you want to take Mila, you’re more than welcome to. I can’t commit to anything, however.”
“Why not?” he asks simply.
I gaze at him, trying to choose my words carefully. “I’m attempting to build a cordial relationship with you because you’re Mila’s father. I don’t want to get involved in any other aspect of your life.”
His fingers steeple together and he stretches his long legs under the table as he watches me, a faint half smile on his lips. “Maybe we should talk about why you’re so willing to cast me as some proverbial villain. What exactly have I done that made you hate me so much?”
