Page 218 of A Taste of Vanilla

All of those are facts.

But facts aren’t always the full truth.

I haven’t told her I’m beginning to imagine mornings here before I can stop myself. Haven’t told her that I know where all of her emergency candy is and that this knowledge, to me, feels more intimate than sex. I haven’t told her I think about her bakery when I’m not in it, and I haven’t told Marley that my temporary help has become something else. I haven’t even told myself what that something else means.

“No,” I say simply.

“No?”

“I’m not being fully honest.”

He nods. “Fix that.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It never is. That’s why emotionally stunted people avoid it.”

I look at him, and he looks back with the calm of a man who knows exactly what he said.

“I assume that was directed at me,” I say.

“Good. You do have awareness.”

He looks around and pushes off the wall. When he reaches the door, he stops. “And you should think about whether you’re staying because you want to or because leaving got complicated.”

He opens the door. “And if you make her cry, Marley will threaten you loudly.”

“I know.”

“I won’t.”

I go still. His voice is flat, his eyes intense.

He’s been feeding Halston toast, checking her false smiles, and holding doors and water glasses for years. He’s been here before, during, and after Grant. Through a large chunk of her life. Through every day she’s spent feeling like she’s too much and not enough in the same breath.

He’s not her brother, her boyfriend, or her dad. But he was chosen.

Oliver looks me directly in the eye. “I don’t threaten loudly.”

I believe him.

“Yes,” I say.

He studies me for another second, then nods once, satisfied for now, and adds, “Also, stop organizing her mugs by handle angle. She noticed.”

“She noticed?”

“She noticed and then stared at them like you were flirting with her.”

I look away.

He groans. “Christ. You’re both worse than I thought.”

He leaves, and the door shuts softly behind him.

Halston walks in wearing jeans, boots, and a soft sweater the color of buttercream. Her hair is half-tied back, secured with a blue ribbon. She stops in the kitchen doorway when she sees me.

“Did I hear Oliver?”