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I grin at his adorableness. “You’ll feel better once you eat.”
I sip at my sweet tea, the outside of the mason jar ice-cold under my fingers.
“Why did you get a different glass than me?” Ellister scrutinizes his Styrofoam cup as if it offends him.
I don’t have a pleasant answer for him.
I came by my pettiness honestly.
As the queen of petty, my mom is making her distaste known through tiny inequities. That’s just her way—it’s like death by a thousand passive-aggressive papercuts.
She went above and beyond with the snack she prepared for us—at least she did forme. I hadn’t realized how close it was to lunch, but she’d been keeping track of the time, and she made us a whole meal, knowing we’d need it.
But, in addition to different cups, she didn’t give Ellister the same sandwich as me. He’s almost finished with the turkey on white bread now, but I did notice his was missing the lettuce and tomatoes. And instead of Doritos, she served him unflavored corn chips, which are her least favorite. Also, his bowl of homemade applesauce was only half full.
I give a small shrug. “My mom knows how I like my drinks—in a mason jar. It’s the superior drinking container.”
“I would like a superior drinking container.” With furrowed eyebrows, Ellister picks at the plastic top on his disposable cup.
His usual quiet broodiness is in full swing.
There hasn’t been much talking between us since we started eating. I should probably be drilling every bit of information I have about the farm into Ellister, but my headache came back after we got out of the cart.
He’s too far away.
It’s a ridiculous thought. We’re only separated by a round three-foot table, but I feel the distance in the form of extreme discomfort all over my body.
If I touch him, it’ll get better.
Just to test a theory, I extend my good leg, sliding it under the table until my foot is touching Ellister’s.
Immediate relief.
I try not to let my satisfied sigh be too obvious, but it’s hard to hold it in. I cover it up by reaching for my tea and playing with the straw.
The only acknowledgement Ellister gives to the little game of footsie is a slight stiffening of his shoulders, but he doesn’t move away from me.
I’ll take it.
Behind me, I hear the heavy metal door open, the sounds of busy clattering in the kitchen floating out.
My mom comes over to our table juggling a pitcher of sweet tea and two small paper plates with donuts on them. After placing our dessert on the table, she refills my drink, but totally neglects Ellister’s.
“Your donut is fresh,” she informs me before bending to kiss the top of my head.
Mouth-watering cinnamon and sugar is wafting up in the steam. “Thanks, Mom.”
“What about mine?” Ellister questions, looking at his room-temperature donut.
“Yours is from the batch we made early this morning,” she answers coldly.
My jaw drops at her icy response.
Pettiness aside, I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed her being openly rude to anyone. Even when we’ve caught shoplifters over the years, she’s treated them with more respect than that.
Ellister smoothly intervenes as if he’s unaffected by her ire.
“Thank you, Mrs. Wildwood,” he says politely. “Your hospitality has been the best I’ve ever seen. I’ve never felt so honored to be a guest.”
