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“You didn't ask me a question.”
“Oh.” She giggles again, tipsy from the small glass of red wine she drank earlier at dinner.
Maybe it wouldn't have affected her so much had she eaten more than half a plain chicken breast and a few bites of broccoli. After I said my piece at the cookout about refusing to watch her starve herself, she's been trying more. I see it as I sit across from her at mealtimes—the confliction on her face, the pain.
It hurts her to go against every instinct that's been instilled in her brain by the industry, to stab some food with her fork, bite and swallow. Something that has always been so simple to me, the act of eating, is almost impossible to her.
And I know that the more pressure I put on her to eat, the harder it will be for her. I know that—I do—but it's so fucking hard to watch her move the small portions around her plate, playing with it but never lifting it to her mouth. It's so damn difficult to stop myself from wrenching open her mouth and stuffing food inside it, not letting go until she swallows.
I don't, though.
I just tell her how proud she's making me with every tiny bite she takes on her own and pray that, one day, things will be better.
“Why haven't I seen you smoke since I started staying here?” she continues. “It's just that if you're restricting yourself for my benefit, you really don't need to.”
“I know that,” I tell her, lips twitching at her fumbled, curious words. “Just haven't needed to, I guess.”
“You can stop that easily?”
“It's only something I do when I'm stressed.”
“Ah.” She sucks her lips into her mouth, analyzing my statement and trying to read between the lines. “And seeing me back in town stressed you out?” At my nod, she asks, “Why?”
Smirking, I reach for one of her feet and pull it into my lap, massaging the sole of it with my thumbs. She moans, eyelids fluttering shut. “You know why.”
“Do I?”
“Sure do, princess.”
“Fine, but you still hated me the first night I was here. Remember when you kissed me and ran?” She narrows her eyes in feigned annoyance. “You didn't smoke then either.”
I don't tell her that having her in my space, with her presence and scent and sweetness invading the air, made the idea of polluting it with cigarette smoke unthinkable. Though, truth be told, the thought of smoking hasn't crossed my mind once since the moment she first stepped foot through the threshold of my home.
“Same answer as before. Didn't need to.”
“You're really not giving me what I want, are you?”
Shaking my head, I tug on her ankles, making her butt slide down the length of the tub to bring her closer to me. She pouts playfully, but I can tell she's battling with something underneath her lightheartedness.
It's the twitch in her eyebrow that gives her away, just as it does every time.
“You need more reassurance about that whole India thing?” I ask, cupping her soapy cheek in my palm.
Her eyes fall to the bubbles foaming between us, the easiness of her expression slipping. “It's not that,” she admits quietly, then reconsiders. “I don't know, maybe it is.”
I wait patiently, the silence filled with steady breaths and the fizzing of our bubble bath. My thumbs continue to work concentric circles over her feet, her white-tipped toes curling the way they always do when I'm inside her. And though I'm calm as I wait for her to continue, something in my chest pulls taut at her melancholia.
A sigh slips through her lips, misting the air between us. “I'm jealous of her,” she says finally, slow gaze dragging up to meet mine. “Not because of your past relationship with her or even what happened earlier, but because if you wanted to be with her, you could. It would be so easy.”
Pulling my hands from her feet, I slide them up her body to cup her face, spearing my fingers into her hair. “Being with you would be easy.” But even as I say the words, I doubt the truth of them.
“No,” she denies, her voice a sort of pained apology. “It wouldn't.”
“Does it matter? 'Nothing worth having comes easy.'Ain't that what Lincoln once said?”
“Roosevelt,” she corrects, a small smile playing on her lips.
“Tomayto, tomahto,” I say and she giggles. The sound sets everything right with the world again, the air loosens, the tightness in my chest eases. “But anyway, I ain't ever been afraid of a bit of hard work. Hell, being with you wouldn't even be work, no matter how hard it is, 'cause it's you, ya know? I'd cry, sweat and bleed for you, and still, I wouldn't ever think of it as working.”
