Chapter 31 #2
Andy quietly pads through the apartment, pulling plates and glasses from the cabinet, before joining me on the floor by the coffee table, a contemplative look etched into the strength of his brow. “And?”
“That’s it.”
“But it’s bothering you,” he challenges, sliding more than half the container of noodles on my plate, and I can’t help but grin over at him. Two spring rolls get plopped there, too, plus a heaping portion of sesame chicken. All of which happen to be my favorite.
I lock eyes with him for a second, a warmth circling my heart and squeezing so tight, I worry I’ll never feel this good again.
This good, in the midst of all the other shit.
That’s the magic in being taken care of, being seen; that’s the unexplainable that I worry will one day make perfect, deconstructable sense.
His brows lift, a reminder of the conversation he’s trying to have.
“Yes, it’s botherin’ me. I closed that chapter of my life and I’ve got no desire to revisit it,” I tell him, feeling confident and sure, my brain winning, if only for a moment and he nods.
There isn’t anything about that time that calls to me—not right now, anyway—and I watch as he lets me steer this ship.
Lets me share what I want and leave alone what I don’t. A privilege I’ve rarely been given.
Just past where Andy sits, I can see my bedroom door cracked open, can see my unfinished canvas and the late afternoon sun that fractures over the drop cloth. Like it’s speaking to me, a silent petition to be finished.
His tongue grazes his bottom lip as an easy smile tugs there, and as hungry as I am, I’d rather feast on him instead. “Eat,” he says, reading my mind or the heat in my gaze. “We have all the time in the world.”
God, I want it to be true. More than anything. So I let myself lean into this thing I’m constantly scared will slip through my fingers.
“Was my brother nice to you today?” I ask him, spooling the noodles around my chopsticks. Andy’s eyes roll as laughter chimes out of him and he leans back against the couch.
“I think he’s only hard on me in front of you. Honestly, he’s a peach,” he says, shrugging his shoulders before popping a fried wonton in his mouth.
“A peach?” I feel my eyes go wide and my smile deepens. “Surely, not my brother.”
“He just wants to intimidate me a little. I’d do the same for Carmen.” When he says his sister’s name, it’s full of endearment that causes my heart to swell. I wish my own brother would hold me in such high regard.
“I promise you, he’s not that concerned about me,” I tell him behind a mouthful of chicken, covering my mouth before taking a huge gulp of soda.
A doubtful look slots into his features.
“You don’t really think that, do you? He loves you, Sloane.
” I roll my eyes. “We haven’t always seen eye to eye, you know…
with Will being my best friend, but…he’s sensitive.
And he worries about you. He shouldn’t be worried about me,” he adds, smirking as he offers me a bite of his General Tso’s that I gladly nip off the fork.
“No, I don’t think he should be,” I agree, fighting the happiness threatening to leave permanent dimples in my cheeks.
“You can always tell how good a man is by how he treats the woman who raised him.” He pulls his fork back, glancing down at his plate as he pushes some food around before deciding on a sliver of carrot.
“That so?”
“I think so. I mean you and Rebecca—prime example.” I cock my head, thinking.
“Grant’s obviously not great with Connie, but he worships Evie.
I don’t know much about Ben’s mother, but Liv’s never said anything weird.
Oh my god, but,” I sit up, leaning across the table.
“She did say Will and her like, barely speak. So,” I shrug, taking a bite out of a spring roll.
“I don’t know if that’s really fair,” Andy says quietly, like he’s chewing on a thought.
“Defendin’ him to me is futile, Andrew,” I tell him. “He hurt both of my best friends. He’s like…a sociopath.”
“He’s not a sociopath. He’s just…”
“Do not say traumatized,” I say right as he says it, and I scoff, amusement rolling through me. “You’re just like Clementine.”
“Empathetic?” he smirks, glancing up from his plate as he scoops up water chestnut.
“Soft,” I giggle. “I’m empathetic. Some would say to a fault.”
“No such thing. I told you—I think you’re perfect.”
“Mhm,” I hum, taking another sip of my drink.
“There he goes again.” I brush the hair off the nape of my neck, warm from the blush he’s constantly sending across me with just a glance, just a look.
Right now, he’s set down the fork he opted for instead of chopsticks, is blotting his mouth with a napkin, and is looking at me like I hung the moon.
I want to tell him to knock it off, to be serious, to look at me for who I am, but the feeling is intoxicating. And most of all, I want to believe him.
He moves to where I’m sitting, pulling me into him.
“Not so fast, pretty boy.” I swat him away, taking another bite of my chicken before getting up. “I’m inspired, and I’ve got work to do. We have all the time in the world…remember?” I wink and make my way back to the sun soaked canvas.