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Except Dahlia isn’t someone.
She is so muchmore.
The thought has me jumping out of my chair. Instead of sitting around and stewing in my thoughts, I end up raiding the vending machine and purchasing a few wraps from the cafeteria. I like being useful, and everything about today has me feeling the complete opposite.
After another hour, Dahlia walks out of the two doors with her left arm wrapped in a purple cast and a reminder card for an appointment booked four weeks from now.
Relief hits me instantly like a wrecking ball to the chest.
She’s okay.
Of course she’s okay, you dumbass. It’s a broken arm, not open-heart surgery.
“Hey.” She fidgets with a loose thread on her sling.
“Nice color.”
“It’s my favorite.”
I know.I grab the plastic bag off the floor and offer it to her.
“What’s that?” She stares at the offering like an armed bomb.
“Food.” My right eye twitching speaks louder than any words.
She sifts through the bag. “Why would you get me—Mini M&M’s!” The childish squeal that comes out of her makes my mission to find it totally worth it. “I haven’t had these in years.”
“Why not?” I can’t imagine her going a week without some, let aloneyears.
Her cheeks flush. “Filming diet and all that fun stuff.”
“That’s stupid.” Based on the weight she has lost, she could use all the M&M’s money can buy.
Her eyes roll. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.” She attempts to rip at the plastic wrapper covering the tube. Despite her struggles, she refuses to ask me for any help, so I pluck the container from her hand.
“Give it back!” She tries to swipe it back with her good arm.
I hold it up above her head and tear the plastic off. To spite her for being difficult, I pop open the cap and pour some intomy mouth before passing the container back.
She peers inside the tube. “You ate almost half of them!”
I reach inside the bag and pull out the second tube hidden beneath the turkey wrap and a bag of chips.
Her gasp of surprise feels like a victory. “You got me two? Why?”
“They were on sale.” The lie comes out easily.
“If you keep doing things like this, I might end up thinking you’re a nice guy or something.”
“We can’t have that.” I reach for the bag, only for her to sidestep me.
“Never mind. Your reputation as an asshole is alive and well.”
“And don’t you forget it.” I turn and head toward the exit while shielding my smile from the one woman who always finds a way to bring it out, whether she knows it or not.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Julian
