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He combed his fingers through his short hair, the front sticking up, before dragging his hand down his face. “Listen, I know you don’t want me in your business, so I won’t ask why you didn’t tell your sister or anyone else, for that matter, including whoever the guy was.” His shoulders rose, his jaw clenched for a brief moment. “But I’m going to assume it’s because of some warped sense of pride, and although I would love nothing better than to knock your sense of self-importance down a few notches, I’m not here to fuck with you. I’ll stay until your sister gets home. Or, whoever else you want here.”
His words were so sincere I easily ignored the dig about my pride and supposed self-importance, but I couldn’t meet his gaze when I told him, “My grandmother calls me the rock. I’ve been the steady, unmovable force in my family for so long, I’m not sure I know how to be anything else.”
He didn’t say anything, so I went back to eating, and it was a long time before he finally said, “Paper covers rock.”
I set my bowl down from where I’d been lapping up the last of the broth. “What?”
“In rock, paper, scissors, paper covers rock. It’s not unbeatable.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I scooted up onto the couch with the plate of apples and held it out to him.
He bit into a slice, speaking around it. “You might be a rock, but that doesn’t mean you’re supposed to withstand everything. You’re strong—really strong—but sometimes you get beat by being covered with paper.”
“And let me guess—in this analogy, you’re the paper.”
He took another apple slice from the plate with a gruff sound. “You can’t even admit that was a really good philosophical metaphor.” Then he tossed a blanket over me. “Soulless demon.”
I smiled into the cream knit blanket and laid my head on the end of the couch, while he aimed the remote at the TV. “What do you want to watch?”
“I don’t care.”
He scrolled through my streaming apps. “What’s your favorite movie?”
I leaned over to set the empty plate on the table then burrowed back down in the blanket. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” He eyed me suspiciously. “How do you not know?”
I shrugged.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know, maybeDonnie Darko,” I said.
He tapped his finger on the remote a few times. “Donnie Darkois your favorite movie? The one with Jake Gyllenhaal hallucinating with the rabbit and the end of the world?”
“Yeah.”
He huffed a laugh. “That’s not your favorite movie.”
I sneered at him. “Yes, it is.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is,” I bit out. “You can’t tell me whatmyfavorite movie is.”
He sent me a reprimanding glare. “Donnie Darkoisn’t your favorite movie. That’s the movie you say when people ask what your favorite movie is, but it’s notactuallyyour favorite. I want to know what your real favorite movie is, the one you watch whenever it’s on cable. The one you know all the words to and makes you feel good.”
I sat stone silent.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Yes, you do,” he countered.
“No, I—”
“Taylor, stop fighting with me over this and just tell me what your favorite fucking movie is.” He dropped his elbow on the back of the couch to hold his head up like I was giving him pains. “Christ, everything is an argument with you.”
