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I cut her off. “Anything you don’t eat?” I ask again, my tone sharper.
Instead of speaking, she just shakes her head, her gaze still firmly fixed on her sneaker-clad feet.
Shaking my head, I step past her, and she practically throws herself at the wall to get out of my way. A thrumming pulse of anger rushes through my veins as I descend the stairs, and by the time I get into the kitchen, I’m wound so tight, I’m fighting the urge to storm back upstairs to ask her what the fuck her problem is.
She’s the one who’s invading my home and putting me out by staying with me. What the fuck does she have to be upset about? Not that she seemed upset exactly; more scared and anxious.
From my memories of her as a kid, she was the same back then: always hiding, always quiet, always sniveling and crying.
Not that I helped the situation back then. Whenever I was forced to spend time with my dad, I was an asshole. I didn’t want to be there, and I made sure he and his new, perfect family knew that.
I try not to spend too much time thinking about the few years my dad had joint custody of me. I know I never hurt her physically, but I was a screwed-up kid, and I lashed out at everyone around me. I’m not proud of it, but according to my fire service-appointed therapist, my feelings were valid, and although I might not have behaved in the healthiest way, my anger and behavior were very common for a teenager dealing with their parents’ divorce.
Honestly, I thought I’d hate therapy. The chief at the firehouse in Michigan I worked in for a while forced my entire team into mandatory counseling after we witnessed our friend and teammate being killed by a falling beam in a house fire. At first, I would sit there and refuse to talk, but after a few sessions, I started talking, and it helped.
I’m not saying I’m a new-age dude who enjoys sitting and talking about my feelings, but I can appreciate the need to maybe understand why I’m so angry all the time, and even now, years later, I still have sessions every couple of months to help me release some of the tightly wound fury that is constantly present inside of me.
It’s been a while since I spoke to the doc, and given how pissed I am at the woman who is invading my house, it might be time to schedule a session. I’ve spoken to my therapist about my dad and his family, but apart from explaining my animosity toward Henrietta and her mom, I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned her by name.
I don’t like my dad’s stepdaughter, I never have. I’d even go so far as to say I really fucking hate her, but truthfully, until she stepped off that bus thirty minutes ago, she wasn’t a real person in my life, she was just an echo of the past. I’ve always hated her because she’s just another shitty part of my shitty relationship with my dad.
But now that she’s here, it’s impossible to ignore the irrational animosity I’m feeling toward her. The way she’s dressed is too cute. Her tiny body is too skinny. Her meek voice and deer-in-the-headlight demeanor are too terrified. Everything she’s done since I saw her step off that bus has driven me absolutely crazy, and I have no fucking clue why.
Pulling in a breath that does absolutely nothing to calm the maelstrom of emotions I’m feeling, I force myself to exhale slowly. After I’ve repeated the action two more times, I slowly unclench my hands that have curled into fists and pull open the refrigerator door. Grabbing the steaks I got at the store today, I get to work prepping them.
By the time I hear the sound of Henrietta’s tentative steps coming down the stairs, I have baked potatoes cooking, a green salad prepared, and the steaks cooked and resting in foil on the counter.
“Do you want a beer?” I ask, not looking at her, when she pauses at the bottom of the stairs. I can feel her nervousness from across the room, and her anxiety destroys all my attempts to calm the fuck down.
“No, thank you. Is there anything I can do to help?” she asks quietly.
“No,” I snap. “Dinner will be done in a couple of minutes. Take a seat at the table.” A part of me knows I’m being an asshole, but when she jumps to follow my direction and rushes to the table, a surge of something that I really shouldn’t be feeling for a woman I fucking hate pulses to life in my chest.
Dividing the food between our plates, I grab silverware, then carry everything from the kitchen, sliding her plate onto the table in front of her, then placing my own down on the seat opposite hers. Without saying a word or looking at her, I start to eat, doing my best to pretend she’s not here. My steak is fucking perfect, the baked potato is fluffy, and the salad is crisp and fresh. I wouldn’t call myself a good cook, but it’s pretty hard to ruin simple food like this.
The silence stretches between us, thickening the tension in the room until it’s almost palpable. After five minutes, my own plate is almost clear, my steak is long gone, and only a few forkfuls of salad remain.
Unable to fight the urge any longer, I lift my chin and look at her. Her eyes are downcast, her focus on her plate, but she’s barely eaten anything. Her steak is completely untouched, and her baked potato is only half eaten as she slowly works her way through the salad.
“Steak and potatoes not fancy enough for you?” I growl, unable to keep the vitriol from my tone.
“It’s great, thank you so much for cooking,” she says, her voice timid, but achingly polite.
“You’ve barely touched anything but your salad,” I snap, pointing at her plate.
“I appreciate you cooking for me, but this is a lot of food, I’m half your size. But I’m going to try to eat the baked potato and salad.”
“Protein is better for you.”
“I’m…” Biting her lip, she glances a quick look at me, flashing me her huge doe eyes before she drops her gaze again. Fuck, she looks like a Disney character.
“You’re what?” I question acerbically.
“I’m a vegetarian,” she admits in a rush, then braces like she thinks I’m going to throw something at her.
“The fuck?” I snarl. “I asked if there was anything you didn’t eat. Why the hell didn’t you tell me you don’t eat fucking meat?” I’m not sure how or when it happened, but I’m on my feet, leaning across the table and towering over her, so close that I’m practically forcing her to tip her head back and look at me.
Her doll-like eyes are wide and glassy, like she’s not sure if she should be terrified or burst into tears. A memory flashes into my mind. Images of her looking just like this when we were kids. She cried a lot when I was around. Back then, I thought she was just a crybaby, but for the first time, I’m wondering if I was the reason for the tears.
