Page 122 of Devious Lies (Cruel Crown)
He gave me a solid thirty seconds to grab it before he plopped it on the coffee table in front of me and studied my flushed cheeks. “It’s lemon herb salmon with the little green things Ma makes that you’re obsessed with.”
“They’re capers, Nash, and people don’t make them. They cook them.” I tapped my naked nails on my phone screen, breathing from my mouth so I couldn’t smell the food. My stomach continued its relentless growls. “How do you know I like capers?”
“Is that a serious question? You and Dad would fight over them whenever Ma made Chicken Piccata.” Nash sat next to me on the couch, making it feel a hundred times smaller. He dragged the bag closer to the edge of the table and pulled out a black plastic container with a transparent lid. “You spilled the entire serving plate one year while trying to steal the capers from Dad and Reed’s plates.” It looked like the memory made him happy, which did uncomfortable things to my chest, even as I did my best to ignore him and the food. “Ma ended up doubling the capers in the recipe. Every time she makes Chicken Piccata, it’s like eating green shit with a side of chicken and pasta.”
My eyes dipped to the dish as he pulled off the lid.
Fuck.
Was I drooling?
“Betty still makes Chicken Piccata?”
“Yeah. Once a month.”
His words pulled me out of his orbit.
Out of the tussled hair that made me think words like cafune.
Out of the full lips that parted every time he spoke.
Out of the scent of him I loved to steal.
“You see her once a month?” I stumbled over the words, not quite believing them. It fought the villainous archetype of Nash I’d built in my head.
The one that kept me safe from pesky attachments and reminded me this was not the same guy that packed me lunches and steadied me after the Able incident.
Nash pierced the salmon with a fork at the same time my stomach let loose an obnoxious growl. “I see her nearly every weekend.” He waved the salmon in my face, showing off its flawless medium cook. “I’m eating this if you don’t, and your stomach sounds fucking pissed at you.”
I ignored the food, latching onto a piece of my past that didn’t feel tainted. “How does Betty look?”
He shoveled the fork into his mouth. “Strong.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means she’s keeping herself fed and smiles when I’m looking.”
“And when you’re not looking?”
“She stares wherever Dad should be, eyes leaking like a broken faucet. If we’re at the dinner table, she eyes the empty chair. If we’re in the living room, she eyes the La-Z-Boy. If we’re in the car, she stares down the steering wheel at every stoplight like it should be him driving instead of me.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you asked, and maybe you care.”
“Maybe? Of course, I care about Betty. I love her.”
“Are you eating or what?”
Why do you keep trying to feed me, you confusing, fucked-up villain?
The words sat at the tip of my tongue, begging to be unleashed. I had no energy for a fight, so I swallowed them. They tasted like poor decisions and a forlorn appetite.
My eyes tracked each bite of his. I allowed myself two and half seconds of misery before I turned away from the food and clutched my phone like it was my only connection to Ben. (It was.)
“No,” I forced myself to answer. “I’m not your charity case.”
Ben loved me.
