Page 169 of A Taste of Vanilla

“And I’m inefficient.”

She freezes the second she says the words, as if she’s handed me something lethal. The words hang between us.

I go still.

“No,” I say.

She laughs once, brittle and humorless. “Come on.”

I shake my head. “No.”

“You make lists about production, Warren.”

“Your chaos is not the same thing as the things that can be changed, Halston. Production can be optimized for the benefit of everyone, including you. You’re allowed to be you.”

Her eyes search my face as her body relaxes. “I feel like you don’t miss anything.”

“That’s not true.”

“What do you miss?”

There are so many ways to answer.

I missed out on Marley growing up because I was too busy keeping the bills paid and the house quiet. I miss the days when I didn’t have an impossible load of responsibilities on my shoulders, and the days when leaving was a habit instead of a solution. I really miss when control felt like safety, before Halston stood in front of me and made every controlled thing in me feel fragile.

I miss the way she moaned before she even knew my name.

I don’t say any of that.

Her mouth twists, and something in her expression shutters. “That’s what I thought,” she says as she turns back to the glaze.

I look at the prep table. The bowls, the trays, the notes. The frantic evidence of her fear. Anger moves through me, but not at her.

At Barrett Whitaker.

At Grant Whitaker.

At every polished person who touched her brightness, took what served them, then called the rest too much when they were done.

My voice comes out too blunt. “You’re making the review control you.”

Her eyes flash. “No, I’m not.”

“You’re going to exhaust yourself.”

“And I can do that if I want to.”

“No.”

The kitchen goes quiet.

“No?”

I hold her gaze because I know looking away now will make things worse.

“I didn’t mean?—”

“It’s what you said.”