Chapter thirty #2
Hunter was very clear with his strict instructions as he dropped poor Peyton off at my house.
Sorry—instruction. Singular.
Peyton must be provided dinner.
Maybe he’s forgotten that I’m also human and require food to function. Especially since the entire conversation centered around me being her dinner companion in his place. Call me crazy but I kind of assumed dinner would be on the menu. No pun intended.
My butler service has the night off so that only left one option.
Olive Garden.
Bread sticks for the win.
I just hope Peyton can look me in the eye tomorrow after watching me devour them in a manner only describable as unladylike.
“Dinner’s on me,” I tell her from across the table before wolfing down another stick.
Peyton smiles, sipping her lemonade. “I’m happy to pay my own, honestly.”
“No, no,” I say, waving my hand. “This baddie just started a job and received her first paycheck. It’s a special occasion. Let me treat you, queen.”
She relaxes, getting comfortable in the booth while gazing around at the quiet restaurant. “Did Hunter tell you about our weekly dinners?”
I shake my head at her. “Not really. Just that you do it every week but there was something he couldn’t reschedule tonight. Personally, I think his social battery is dead. Or that there’s some COD emergency.”
Peyton raises an amused eyebrow, taking another sip. “There’s very little that would pull him away from this. Or you,” she adds with a knowing glance. “I know it must be something important then. But it also means he trusts you a lot, Bexley.”
“I’m kind of scared to ask. Just what exactly has he told you about us?”
She laughs quietly. “Little to nothing. He’s very guarded. Or defensive. I’m not sure which.”
“Stubborn?” I offer.
“That too.”
“We have it in common,” I joke. “You know we’re practically dating, right?”
Peyton nods. “Oh, yeah. I figured it out when he was having a meltdown every time your name was mentioned. Then suddenly it was all rainbows, sunshine, and lollipops, and the two of you were hanging out. Coincidence? Hell no.”
I grin sheepishly. “That obvious, huh?”
“Sorry but yep. You’re a terrible actor. Almost as bad as Hunter.”
“But just to be clear… You’re saying I’m better, right?”
“Oh, definitely.”
The two of us share a laugh as the server approaches and we take turns giving our order. After he leaves to put it in, Peyton swirls her straw around in the drink.
“Since you were so openly honest with me, may I return the favor?” She asks quietly.
Nodding, I give her a reassuring smile. “Of course. Anything you say stays between us.”
Peyton lets out a shaky breath, focusing on the beverage. “I have an eating disorder,” she admits. “That’s why we have the weekly dinner thing. It’s Hunter’s idea of therapy.”
“Oh,” I murmur, taken aback at her confession. “Shit, that must be hard. Especially being around cheerleaders all the time. Well, whatever you need support wise, I’m here for you too.”
Slowly, she lifts her gaze to mine. “I appreciate that. It has been difficult. Some days are harder than others, but I like to think I’m getting there.”
“I’m proud of you for voicing it,” I tell her. “That took tremendous courage.”
A perplexed look crosses her face—almost as if she’s stunned to hear the words. “Thanks, Bexley. That means a lot.”
I let Peyton guide the conversation, careful not to push her or make her uncomfortable. She divulges little bits and pieces about her struggles, talking about their family, before we land on school and final exams.
Neither of us are overjoyed by the torture we’re about to endure, but we jointly agree that it will be worth it once we get to the other side.
The food comes and I catch myself watching her more closely, realizing that while Peyton is the better actor out of all of us, the signs are definitely there once you know what to look for. She hesitates with the food, clearly in a mental battle before each bite.
But she does it.
Every single time.
What a fucking champion.
At Willowbrook, Peyton is quiet and reserved. I didn’t notice her much at first, distracted by Liv’s tantrums and mean girl energy. I think because of the crowd she hangs around, it’s easy to miss the quiet strength this woman has.
Well, she’d have to be strong to put up with that untoasted pop tart named Liv.
You should never underestimate someone who has been at war with their own mind. They are usually the strongest in the room.
We change topics to summer plans after our plates are cleared, and I’m so filled to the brim with breadsticks that I’m slapped back to unpleasant reality when a familiar annoying voice interrupts us.
“Wow. Isn’t this nice and cozy? The two of you on a little dinner date.”
My dreamy carb-inspired expression drops at the sight of Liv, her presence leaving a sour taste in my mouth. “If you’re here to sell tickets for the How to Peak in High School seminar, I’m sorry to say we’re not interested,” I grumble.
Liv lets out her signature shrill laugh. “Oh, Bexley. You wouldn’t qualify. You’d actually have to be someone in high school.”
“I think you’re just proving my point to be honest.”
She turns her focus to Peyton, doing the slow, deliberate body check that mean girls use to intimidate someone. “Seriously, Pey? This is so beneath you.”
“I can make my own decisions, Liv,” Peyton murmurs. “What are you doing here? You don’t even like Olive Garden.”
Liv examines her nails. “True. But Rylan does. He sent me to collect his order.”
I try my hardest to stay composed—I really do. But the obvious attack is so ridiculously hilarious that I burst out in laughter. Liv scowls at me, dropping her hand.
“What’s funny, Spencer?”
I put my hand to my chest to control the snorts that threaten to erupt.
“You’re out of your damn mind if you expect us to buy that.
Firstly, Ry gets his food delivered because he likes to personally give cash tips.
And secondly, you… doing manual labor for someone?
Next, you’ll be claiming that an alien gave Mayor Astor a lap dance and that you passed an IQ exam. ”
Peyton drops her head forward to hide her own giggles, but unfortunately Liv notices. She steps forward with an angry glare splashed across her face.
“You’re embarrassing yourself, Peyton. Eating Olive Garden with this bitch? Good luck fitting into your cheer outfit—”
In my peripheral vision, Peyton tenses up, shell-shocked face lifting at the comment. That’s all I see though, because I’m launching out of my seat entirely on impulse.
I don’t realize I’m doing it until there’s a loud, painful scream and a sudden crunch under my knuckles, Liv dropping to the ground like a sack of potatoes as I punch her square in the nose with an almighty thud.