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“She poked around in my shit?”
Rolling my eyes, I head the few steps to the kitchen, which is only divided from the living space by a huge four-person bar top. “I don’t think she was going through your underwear drawer, so you can relax. She and Isa didn’t want you to come home to dust and an empty fridge. Isa had a key, so she used it.”
I open the fridge and duck inside, grabbing Tupperware at random before slamming it closed again. “You should be grateful,” I tell him when he only continues to scowl. “They were doing it for you—to be nice.”
“Were you with them?” he asks. I tense a little, but refuse to show how much his words affect me.
“Nope. I had other things to do; no time to spend yesterday cleaning your house since I knew I would be with you today.”
The words sound wrong the minute I say them, but I don’t correct myself. Not after what he asked me, and his face when I saidno, like he was relieved that I wasn’t in his space. Jerk.
“I don’t need you to take care of me,” he grits out, eyes going back to the outside.
“Of course not. I’m sure you could have driven yourself home from the airport. I should have just left the keys to the Challenger under the tire and told you good luck working a clutch with your broken left leg.” I slam cupboards until I find a plate, piling food on at random.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says. “You could have locked them inside. There’s a keypad.”
“What’s terrifying is you’re not joking.” His insolent stare tells me I’m right. “Jesus, Mal, you’re almost sick with pain. Don’t bother lying,” I snap when he opens his mouth. “I can see it, even if you refuse to admit it. Just like you aren’t sitting down because you think it makes you look weak. Well, newsflash: you’re hurt, which means you’re weak, and you need help. Get over yourself.”
I slam the plate into the microwave and press theSTARTbutton. Then I turn to him and cross my arms over my chest. “Do you even have pain medicine?”
He shakes his head, jaw working. “I don’t need medicine, I told you I’m fine.”
“No, what you are is an idiot. A stubborn one. Sit down,” I tell him. “Do you have Advil in your bathroom? Ibuprofen at least?”
I go to head down the hallway, but he snags me by the arm, fingers tight enough to halt my progress. “I told you I didn’t need to be taken care of. I don’t want or need pain medicine.”
“Malcolm,” I say, but he cuts me off.
“You’re not my keeper, Nala. Leave me be.”
Everything inside of me freezes at those words. Not his keeper. Not his girlfriend. Not really his friend. We’re people whose lives are inexplicably connected because of our circle of friends. But that’s it.
I forgot, or tried to, and now I’m paying for it. Straightening my shoulders, I promise I won’t make that mistake again.
“Your food is heated up. Eat it—or don’t. I don’t really care at this point.” A flicker crosses his eyes, but I look away instead of trying to decide what it is. An hour, one hour, and I was almost back in the same place I was eight years ago, working around Malcolm Brady’s moods, and trying to take care of him despite the fact that he didn’t want me.
Not again, I remind myself. Never again.
Peeling his fingers from my arm, I turn on my heel and walk out the front door, slamming it behind me and praying my feelings for Malcolm stay there behind the closed door.
