8. The Emotionally Volatile One
Chapter Eight
The Emotionally Volatile One
Grant
Ihaven’t stopped thinking about it all evening. The look on her face, the way her body seized up like I hit her with a cattle prod, and the way she totally shut down afterward. I don’t know exactly what set her off, but I can make an educated guess.
I know, because Fia has told me, that she and Neve are routinely compared—most of all by their parents. Fia is always told she’s too cold, not emotionally articulate or expressive enough, so Neve ends up being the one who’s too emotional.
She even told me before the session, when she texted me, that she’s the “emotionally volatile one.” I shake my head, annoyed with myself. I didn’t say it in so many words, but I basically told her she was too much. I’m a fucking idiot.
It’s eating me alive.
God, I can’t believe I’m about to do this.
I grab my phone from my pocket almost vengefully, swallowing hard as I tap into our text thread, then hit the record button for a voice note.
I clear my throat. “Hey… uh, I just wanted to say sorry about what happened earlier. I don’t exactly know what it was that set you off, but—”
I cut myself off, wanting to scrub the message, but I think that if there’s anything Neve Hart might appreciate, it’s candor. Still, the last thing I want to do is accuse her of being ‘set off,’ especially given the context.
I try again, continuing, “Fuck. Sorry, again, I don’t mean set you off—you weren’t…
You didn’t do anything unreasonable, Neve.
But… I guess it was when I said ‘too much’?
I’m speculating here, but that’s when you shut down.
Your whole posture changed, like you were trying to check out.
I didn’t mean to upset you, but I’m sorry I did, and you’re entitled to feel whatever you felt.
I just don’t know why you felt it, so… if you want, will you explain it to me?
” I clear my throat again. “So, I can be better… next time.”
I keep my thumb on the screen, contemplating deleting the whole message, but then I release it and let it send.
I wait ten minutes, trying and failing to read a new literature review while periodically flipping my phone over to see if she’s messaged back yet, but every time I check, there’s nothing.
Eventually, I shut my phone in a drawer in my bedroom. With Sera not here, I have nothing to occupy my time, so I lock the phone away and try to go about my usual routine.
I choose my go-to, for when I’m trying to get my mind off a spiral—cooking.
I opt for something simple, but with multiple steps that require me to focus on timing and order. Broiled garlic asparagus. Black rice. A fresh salad with blackberries, goat’s cheese, arugula, and pistachios.
I work through everything methodically.
The black rice comes first, since it takes so long to cook properly, but I like it better than wild rice—which is apparently a grass, not a rice, so maybe that’s why I don’t like it—and I put it on the stovetop in my black rice pan, which I use only for black rice because it stains everything a faint purple color no matter how hard I scrub it.
I add a little salt and some vegetable stock, then set it boiling, covered with a glass lid so I can keep an eye on it.
Standing at the island, I break the woody stalks off the ends of the asparagus, dropping them into the trash can nearby. The asparagus spears get tossed with oil, salt, pepper, and garlic, and I throw them on an enamel tray and push them into the oven to roast.
I check on the rice, which is maybe halfway through cooking, then get to work on the salad.
The arugula is fresh this week from the greengrocer in the city market, and I wash it in the salad spinner my folks got me for my birthday a few years back.
The top of the bowl is a little cracked, and the edge of it is melted where it accidentally touched my air fryer when it was hot, but it still seals and works fine, so I haven’t bothered to replace it.
I picked up the blackberries yesterday, and I drop those into the spinner to wash them with the arugula too. After that, I’m dropping them into a bowl and setting to work shelling pistachios.
The rice still has about ten minutes to go, if I had to guess, which is the perfect amount of time to shell the pistachios, dice up the goat’s cheese, and make a quick vinaigrette from olive oil, mayonnaise, English wholegrain mustard, and balsamic vinegar, shaken in a jar with the lid on to emulsify it all.
By the time I toss the salad, the rice is done cooking, and the asparagus is fully roasted. I turn off the oven and empty the rice pan into the metal farmhouse sink, leaning into the billowing steam that rises up.
I settle at the table with a glass of red wine and my dinner, with the Maya Mercy book I’ve been trying to read on and off when I haven’t been distracted by Neve Hart. I haven’t gone to get my phone from the drawer yet.
I press Right Where You Left Us open on the table beside my plate, spine cracking, and now I’m wondering whether Neve is a spine-cracker or not. I know her sister is, and Cade is an absolute barbarian with his books.
I like a book to look well loved. I glance up to my shelf, stacked with all the romance books I’ve read over the last three or four years.
I never would have had them out in the open like this when I was with Marie.
She still doesn’t know that I read them—not that it’s any of her business—and I know she would roast me for it if she did.
I guess it’s not “manly” to read romance, or some bullshit.
I enjoy my unmanly book with my dinner regardless, savoring every bite of the meal I made myself and enjoying my glass of red wine, one Fia recommended to me. By the time I’ve finished it, I’m practically vibrating in my chair.
I dogear the page and drop the book on the counter as I ferry my plate and glass into the kitchen, loading them into the dishwasher.
I don’t know how long I’m going to be able to hold off checking my phone, and it’s not like I’m trying to play games—I’m not trying to leave it a long time so that it tortures her in some kind of weird way…
I’m just trying not to torture myself if she’s not responded yet.
“Shower,” I mutter under my breath.
I try not to think about her while I undress, and I try even harder not to think about her while I’m in the shower. When I step out, I wrap a towel around my hips and smooth a hand over the mirror, smearing away the condensation so I can comb my hair.
I grab the oil from its little green bottle in the cabinet and spread it over my fingers, dragging them through my beard to oil it while it’s still wet, then I pop out my contact lenses and put my glasses on instead.
I don’t like to wear them that much, but by the end of the day, my eyes are tired and need a damn break.
I go back downstairs to grab my book, but I can only get a few pages through the meet cute before I’m on my feet again. That’s all I can stand before I go to the drawer and pull my phone out to find that Neve has sent a voice note back—fifty-four minutes ago.
I almost manage to convince myself not to open it—but I’m not that strong. When I do pull up the thread, I stare at the top of the screen for about a minute, looking at her ID in my phone: Don’t.
I snort to myself. Like that was ever going to work.
I thumb the play button, and her voice filters through the tinny speaker of my phone.
“Hey.” She speaks softly, a little raspy.
Not like she’s out in public, just subdued.
I hate that it might be because of me. “Sorry for dipping out on you so suddenly earlier. You—” She breaks off, laughing softly, but it sounds sad.
“Yeah. I guess you hit the nail on the head. I don’t know if Fia has told you much about how our parents compared us, and I won’t go into it now—it’s not really my place—but suffice to say, in terms of emotional expression, I was always too much, and she wasn’t enough.
” She scoffs. “Academic performance, though? That’s where I could never measure up.
So… yeah. Kind of a downer. Sorry it’s not something more mysterious and sexy.
” The voice note cuts off with another forced laugh.
I send back a message without thinking about it, only realizing how it comes across when I reread it.
Me:
I don’t think you need to be any more mysterious and sexy than you already are, Neve.
When she doesn’t reply for a few moments, I consider deleting the message, but then my phone vibrates in my hand.
Don’t:
well congrats doctor king, I don’t think anybody else has had the honor of me admitting they have me speechless
I grin down at my phone like a dumbass.
Me:
So… You’re okay? I’m sorry, Neve. Really.
My heart is in my throat until her response comes through, then another, and another. I smile despite myself.
Don’t:
yeah, of course. We’re okay
thanks for checking in
but yeah I don’t think I feel the need to reward myself for a tiny victory today, we’re good
Me:
Maybe you should. You did an excellent job today.
Don’t:
I thought you weren’t grading me
Me:
I’m not. I just wanted to let you know.
Don’t:
well, I can’t read the intonation in your texts, but honestly I’m lowkey insulted that it seems like you’re a little surprised
Me:
I’m not.
I’m impressed. That’s different.
I’ve responded so quickly that I barely realize I’ve fallen into the double message trap again. It’s like she’s rubbing off on me.
My dick twitches at the idea of “rubbing” in the context of Neve Hart, and I groan, scrubbing a hand over my face. It’s been too long since I got any action. Fuck if I’d know what to do with a partner after all this time.
I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about that with Neve. Even though I know she’s probably thinking about that with me. She’s pretty well said as much.
She’s magnetic, and I’m weak, and probably a little selfish. I know I’m getting into something dangerous here, but I can’t seem to make myself stay away from her.