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I never really went hungry.
The supplies currently in the cupboard were my rainy-day collection. Just in case a huge unexpected bill came that obliterated my checking account and meager savings, in case we found ourselves without the means to buy food for a week.
So Nathan wouldn’t go hungry.
No way was I touching that stash.
But I wasn’t telling Lance that.
“What do you care?” I asked, surprising myself at the confrontational tone.
I was not confrontational.
No way.
I found ways to avoid confrontation at all costs, and was always the first to back down to rude customers, to bitchy co-workers, people that cut in line, or stole my parking spot.
The one exception was anything to do with Nathan.
Everything else, I shied away from conflict. I knew it was because of my past, and all of my negative associations with conflict and relating it to violence. I’d done a lot of inner work on that, meditated, tried to explore the trauma not hide from it.
But with Lance, it seemed I wasn’t afraid of it.
When he was definitely the one person I needed to be afraid to engage with, not the overweight customer who told me his eggs were too hot and coffee too strong.
His eyebrow twitched but otherwise he didn’t react to my tone. “What’s your favorite food?” he asked.
I blinked. I hadn’t expected the question. “Peanut butter?” I shot back.
Something in his face moved and I swear it was close to amusement.
But then it was gone, replaced by the scary blankness with a tinge of impatience that was his default around me.
I wanted to have a proverbial stare off with him, refuse to answer a question with such a harsh and almost confrontational tone. I wanted him to think I was the woman who could stand up to him. Because I assumed that’s the woman that would end up with a man like Lance. A woman like Rosie. Strong. Able to take care of herself and take on men like Lance. Able to beat them in most circumstances.
But that wasn’t me.
I was painfully aware of that.
If it was, Lance wouldn’t even be here in the first place.
“Steak, rare, fries and broccoli,” I relented. “A full-bodied red. And if it was really my last meal, like on death row or something, plus a whole packet of Oreos for dessert.”
I definitely didn’t think it was possible to surprise Lance, who seemed like he was prepared for anything and everything, but he blinked once, slow and long at my response.
“Steak?” he repeated.
I nodded, almost salivating at the mere thought of it. The last time I’d had steak, Eliza and Karen had taken me out for dinner on my birthday. Logan and Esther had taken care of Nathan. They’d plied me with red wine beforehand so I was agreeable when we pulled up to one of the nicest restaurants in town and announced they were paying.
Then, when we got inside, they hadn’t even let me look at the menu, Karen declaring that she knew I’d just order the cheapest thing on the menu and not what I actually wanted. Because she knew me so well, she knew what I actually wanted and ordered it for me.
I dreamed about that steak for a week straight after that. Promised myself one day I’d be able to take my friends back to that restaurant, order them a steak, wine and be able to pay for it without even blinking.
My birthday was in two months.
So I hadn’t eaten steak in ten.
“Would’ve thought you’d be more of a quinoa person,” Lance responded, causing me to curl up my nose in disgust.
“What would make you think something like that?” I asked, mad that the thought of quinoa chased out the taste of perfectly cooked, grass-fed beef from my tongue.
Lance didn’t say anything, obviously back to his mute, badass routine. He merely looked around the room, pointedly pausing on crystals, and a book on the moon cycle, open on the counter.
I rolled my eyes. “That’s so very cliché of you, Lance. To take me at face value. I thought you would’ve been able to read people better than that,” I teased.
Lance made it clear that he did not appreciate me teasing him. He did that by narrowing his eyebrows, treating me to a glare that chilled my bones and turning on his heel and walking out.
Without a freaking word.
I blinked at the door for a couple of minutes before resuming with the peanut butter and trying to get my breathing under control.
He returned an hour later.
By this point, the peanut butter had all but evaporated from my stomach and I was trying to distract myself from my hunger by cleaning the house.
I was on my hands and knees, trying to reach under the TV cabinet for one of Nathan’s toys when the door opened and closed.
