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I sigh. “He didn’t believe me. Something smells amazing. Are you cooking dinner?”
“Yes, there’s lasagna in the oven. You like that, right?”
Turning toward the kitchen, I have to fight a sudden burning behind my eyes. There’s no way she’d understand how much this normalcy means. How rare it is in my life.
How much I’ll miss it when it’s gone.
“Yes,” I say. “I like lasagna.”
Summer says nothing, just runs a hand over my arm. Touching me casually. Easily. I bend to give Ace a final pat to get myself under control.
“Did he say why he didn’t believe you?” she asks, opening the fridge. “Wine?”
“Yes, thanks.” I sit down on one of her small kitchen chairs, stretching out my legs. She’ll have to step over them as she moves around, that’s how small this place is.
I accept the wineglass she hands me. “I’ve burned a lot of bridges with my family.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. More than… yeah.”
“How come?” She arranges vegetables on a cutting board as we speak, searching for a knife. Making a salad. Asking me without looking at me.
I run a hand over my face and feel a century old. “I haven’t been particularly nice since I got my… well. Since I found out about my eyes.”
“You’ve been nice to me.”
I’m quiet for a beat. “Yes. Well, you’re an exception.”
“You’re nice to your business partners.”
“I work with them.”
“Still, nice. You were really nice to my friends the other night too.”
My lip lifts. Yes, I’d made semi-pleasant small talk for forty-five minutes. It had been a small price to pay to be alongside her for the night.
“I’m capable, I suppose. But not always.”
“And you haven’t been nice to your family,” she says.
“A year ago,” I say carefully, “I was at a family dinner with my parents, my brother, and Cordelia. Mom asked me about the future. My dating life, specifically. And I nearly bit my mother’s head off at the dinner table.” I close my eyes, because the shame and self-loathing that floats inside of me can’t handle Summer’s gaze. “I didn’t trust myself around them for a long time. Not sure if I do, still.”
Summer’s voice is soft. “It’s okay to be angry about your vision, Anthony. To feel cheated or bitter.”
“Yeah. Well, they don’t know any of that. They only know I’ve become an unsociable asshole.”
“Do you think they’d understand if you told them?”
I open my eyes to see her leaning against her miniature kitchen counter. She has a small tomato stain on her lilac dress and an expression so soft it slices through me.
“Yes,” I murmur. “They would. But they’ll also snap into fix-it mode. Start looking for ways to solve this problem or to adapt.”
“And you don’t want that,” she completes. “Because adapting is surrendering.”
“I know it makes no sense.”
“It does, in a way. Even if it doesn’t serve you.” She brushes her hands down her thighs, a thoughtful tone to her voice. “Do you also want to protect them from it?”
