Page 22 of Scorpion

“Mathijs.” My name escapes her lips on a breath, the lips I’ve been yearning for since I was old enough to know what I want. “You’re home.”

Home.

I want to tell her that the main building isn’t my home; it’s wherever she’s stationed herself. If she wants to be in the barn with the animals, I’ll get my bag and we’ll make it a permanent sleepover.

Zalak’s face falls when she spots the takeout bag in my hand. “Mathijs…”

“Would you rather I throw it away?”

Her eyes widen like I’ve committed blasphemy of the worst degree, and it only makes my smile widen. It’s the same trick I’ve been using to get Zalak to eat since we started dating in our teens. If there’s one thing she hates, it’s wasting food. It’s probably the only good quality her mother had.

Huffing, Zal reluctantly holds her hands out, and my chest expands with triumph. I reach out to give the bag to her and snatch it back before she can get her hands on it.

“Do you mind if I join you for dinner?”

“Are you asking me if you can, or are you telling me that you will?” she asks flatly.

“Both will ultimately result in me joining you for dinner.”

Choice is merely an illusion. Or at least that’s the saying. With the power of delusion and misplaced confidence, I can get anything I want.

Anything except my parents, and, for the past ten years, the girl who ran away from me.

The Zalak from back then would roll her eyes or make a comment about my arrogance. Then she’d look away to hide her blush.

She used to smile all the time. She’d laugh, and my world would stop to hear the sound. She’d always direct her smile at me, and I’d remind myself that nothing else matters but her. Keeping that smile. Making her laugh. Helping her become the woman she’d be proud of.

And I lost all of that.

I spent years wondering if I did enough. Maybe it’s my fault she didn’t know I’d do anything for her. Maybe I didn’t communicate it well enough. Maybe I should have tried harder to convince her to stay. Maybe I should never have left when she told me. Because now she’s a specter clinging to her flesh, and I won’t survive losing her a second time.

Wordlessly, she backs away from the door to let me inside. I leave my shoes on the rack next to the entrance, then help myself to her cupboards.

She’s barely made a dent on the groceries I bought her, but I bite my tongue and keep the comment to myself. We’ve both done things to survive, and things to make us take comfort in meeting our graves.

Zalak switches on the light and the mini chandelier above the table illuminates the area. We navigate the kitchen to set up the circular dining table in the middle of the room. She pauses as soon as she sees me remove the dal tadka out of the bag, and I have to pretend like I didn’t catch the pained expression across her face.

She isn’t walking as stiffly as she usually does, and there isn’t as much of a lean to the way she stands. Getting a physiotherapist to see her three times a week is clearly working.

And they say money can’t buy everything.

I can feel her piercing glare on me as I plate up her food, piling on more than she could possibly eat, and it takes more effort than necessary to suppress my grin. What other choice do I have?

Zal grumbles something underneath her breath that sounds eerily similar to fucking prick, and I bite down my chuckle. I settle the plate in front of her and give myself a slightly larger proportion so she has no reason to complain or attempt to push her food to me.

“Thanks,” she says, sounding less than grateful. Always so difficult, that one.

I pick up my naan and pretend not to watch her eat the dal. I think my heart stops beating as she chews, and I’m back to being a kid who’s running home to show Mom the pasta necklace I made at school.

Zalak reveals nothing about her opinion on what used to be her favorite dish. When we were together, she was extremely vocal about her hatred for cooking. She loved dal tadka but her mother refused to make it because it was her brother’s least favorite food. The one time I attempted to make it, we both decided it would be better to throw it out and stick to getting takeout.

I lick my lips and summon the courage to ask, “Do you like it?”

Her eyes snap up to mine like she forgot I was here, and I swear the corners of her lips twitch like she secretly wants to smile. “It’s the best I’ve had in years. Where’d you get it?”

“I stopped by a place on the way here.”

It’s a struggle not to gloat or smile like I just got my first puppy. My heart doubles in size and I have to remind myself to eat as slow as humanly possible to stay in her company for longer. But as the silence stretches, the same trepidation I felt on my walk here, slowly crawls back in.

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