Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 97684 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97684 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Well, he still worked late. (I don't blame him. He does what he has to do to keep us comfortable. God knows I would have been fucked if he had a worse job with worse insurance). Oliver made sure I ate. He's a great cook. But once I was old enough to feed myself, I convinced him I was capable.
The days he went out, I made microwave meals, mac n cheese, sandwiches.
I guess I still know how to do that.
"You want to go out? Get something?" Holden asks.
"You don't cook?"
He pulls out a loaf of bread. A half-used block of cheese. Sets both on the counter. "This is the extent of my skills."
"Me too. Well—" I bend, grab the tomato, place it next to the bread.
"Gourmet."
"Very." My laugh is easy. My entire body is easy. I'm thinking about that and I'm not getting lost in it. I'm not scared he'll read it on my face. I'm just okay…
And I—
God, I really do want to tell him.
But what if he runs away? If he looks at me like I'm a freak? If he realizes just how precarious this whole thing is and ends it early?
We only have four or five hours alone.
Then Oliver and Luna get back.
Then…
Who knows?
I don't want to waste those hours. They might be all I get with him.
This might be my last chance.
My only chance.
I swallow hard. "You want to lead?"
"How confident are you?"
"A little."
He chuckles. "Maybe practice is good. You're heading to college."
"In a dorm. I don't have a kitchen."
"We should eat the bread and cheese plain. Get you ready for next year."
"The dining hall is supposed to be… open most hours."
"Complimentary." His laugh is easy. The usual Holden laugh.
He's an easygoing guy. But there's more too. This whole other side of him that I love.
I…
No, I can't love him. Sure, he's sweet and caring and protective in a Holden kind of way. And his green eyes are the most beautiful thing in the world. And his laugh is better than any music.
And his groan is better than the best cup of tea in the world.
Is this how it feels to love someone?
My entire body is warm. My chest is light. My stomach is fluttering. It's not like the nerves of a crush. It's deeper but easier too.
Better.
I trust him to catch me if I fall.
Which is proof I'm out of my mind. Holden is a lot of things. A troublemaker. A talented artist. A skilled lover. A beautiful man.
He is not a boyfriend.
He doesn't do that. And, well, my brother was right. You have to accept people for who they are.
I accept that.
I just, uh…
I'm focusing on this moment. On making lunch. On breathing. "I'm not that picky, really."
"No?" He raises a brow.
"Not usually." Not anymore.
"Is there anything you can't get enough of?"
Besides you? "Tea."
He chuckles. "Food."
That's harder. Tea is easy. No risk of triggers. "Chocolate."
His eyes meet mine. "Any meals."
"You can have chocolate for a meal."
"A whole bar?"
"Mole."
His laugh is easy. "You're making mole?"
"No, but I, uh… I order it sometimes."
"And you like it?"
"It's just okay."
"That ruins your argument."
"Yeah." I bite my lip. There's so much I want to say. But I don't know where to start. If I'm capable of starting. "It kinda does."
"Not everyone is into food."
"No, that's not it." Not exactly.
He raises a brow then what?
I can tell him. Here. Now. I can just say it. The thing is, I used to be too into food. Into not eating food. Though there's really nothing that makes you obsess about food like not eating it.
It wasn't about the food, exactly, more a way to take control of my life.
To prove myself worthy.
To end the day with a feeling of accomplishment.
Even after six weeks of inpatient treatment and a year of recovery, I'm not there yet. Not back to normal. To a person who eats what she wants, when she's hungry, stops when she's full, stops thinking about it after she's done eating.
I eat as I should. Reasonable portions of healthy things. Smaller, still reasonable portions of less healthy things.
I don't even describe foods as good or bad anymore.
But I don't dive in with abandon.
It's too scary.
What if I go back to that?
What if an extra slice of cake triggers a self-loathing black out and I come to on the bathroom floor, with my fingers down my throat?
"Daisy?" His hand brushes my forearm. "You okay?"
"Oh, I was just… thinking." This is an easier conversation away from food. In theory.
I'm cooking first.
Then…
I don't know if I'm telling him.
But I am cooking first.
I grab a pan. Place it on the stove. Turn the burner to high. "I do like grilled cheese."
"Yeah?"
I nod yeah. "It's one of the few things I make for myself."
"What else?"
"Spaghetti with broccoli and jarred marinara."
"Classic." He laughs. "That was one of my go-tos for a while."