Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 147051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 735(@200wpm)___ 588(@250wpm)___ 490(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 735(@200wpm)___ 588(@250wpm)___ 490(@300wpm)
I’m heading for overreaction territory, and I can’t rein it in. I fling my hand in the air. “I can’t just get another one. The only place that sells them is by my work, which means I’d have to take a half-hour subway ride to get there. And the bakery closes in”—I check the clock on the wall—“a little more than an hour.”
“The grocery store is a five-minute walk. Go there and get something else.”
“That’s not what I want!” I snap. I’m being exactly the kind of problem Tristan hates, but I’m already out of control. It’s not just the piece of cake, but what it represents—not having enough, not being considered. I’m frustrated that he so easily plays this down while I’m heading for irrational, especially since we’ve done this before.
He rolls his eyes. “Why are you being so drama about this, Beat? You’re harping on me about a fucking piece of cake. Are you getting your period or something?”
“One.” I hold up a finger. “Fuck you, Tristan.”
“Why are you so worked up about a piece of stale cake?”
I exhale through my nose, working to keep my temper in check. My anger isn’t helping my cause. “Two, was I bleeding all over your face when I sat on it yesterday?”
His nose wrinkles. “The fuck, Beat?”
“It’s a question. Do I need to repeat it?” I cross my arms.
“No. And no.” His confusion would almost be entertaining if he wasn’t such an offensive asshole.
“I realize you didn’t grow up in a house with menstruating women, so let me enlighten you. My being upset with you for taking something that didn’t belong to you without asking first has nothing to do with my fucking cycle. I’m a human being with emotions, and they are not tied to the goddamn blood moon.”
“But it’s just cake. And it was stale. Why are you so riled up about it?”
I remind myself that Tristan didn’t grow up in a house where treats were rare, though I thought he understood that I did. That when we put our names on things, no one else would finish it. Sure, we might have a bite, but we always left some for the owner.
My eyes are pricking. I need to get away from him before I cry. “Just forget it.” I brush by him, but his fingers circle my wrist. “Just let me go.” My voice cracks, and I turn my head away.
“No.” He tries to get in my face.
A stupid emotional tear leaks out. He’s right about it being stale. I know how irrational I look.
“Are you crying?” He sounds appalled.
“Please let me go,” I whisper.
Instead of releasing my wrist, he pulls me against his bare chest. One hand cups the back of my head; the other winds around my waist.
I’m shocked by the affection. Tristan isn’t a hugger. He does that nose-brush thing, and sometimes he’ll spoon me, but spontaneous hugs are not the norm with him.
I allow it, mostly because it’s so unusual.
Eventually he pulls back, brows furrowed as he cups my cheeks. “God, I hate making you cry.” His thumbs sweep under my eyes, wiping away the tears. “Can you explain why this upsets you so much?”
The only way to avoid this happening again is to be honest with him. I bite the inside of my lip. This is my thing. My hang-up.
“Bea, talk to me, please. I want to understand.”
“I stick to a super-tight budget. I never want to end up in the same position as my parents.”
“Okay, but Flip wouldn’t let that happen.”
“I won’t use my brother as a bank account.” I’m circling the issue. I sigh and drop my gaze to his chest. “I have food insecurities. I’m always worried there won’t be enough. I plan when I’m buying a treat, and I savor it, even if it’s a piece of stale cake, because I won’t waste it, and what if something happens and I can’t afford it again for a while?”
“We have a fridge full of food. Is what Flip and I are giving you for groceries not enough? We can give you more. I’ll give you more if you need it. That’s not something either of us expects you to pay for.”
There’s an envelope of cash in the drawer labeled groceries that Flip and Tristan top up regularly. I put the receipts in the envelope. When it’s down to a hundred bucks, I leave it on the counter, and someone always fills it.
“That’s for your food, though. I have a budget for my own, and I pay for it separately.” Stupid tears keep leaking out. There’s such shame attached to this for me. I hated the days when the fridge was almost bare and we were still days away from a paycheck.
His expression is tender as he puts all the pieces together. “What? Bea, baby, no. You cook all our meals, prep our food, do all the grocery shopping, and the place hasn’t been this clean since Flip moved in. You don’t need to pitch in more than you already are, and you don’t need to buy separate groceries.”