Page 4 of Brazen Criminals

“Did my what?” I squawk. Seriously? I’m running at least fifteen miles a week, and he thinks my boobs are too big?

He continues, oblivious to my reaction. “And I think your hips are wider, too. Are you sure you’ve really been running enough? You know extra pounds only slow you down. Either way, good call skipping breakfast.” He signals a lane change, finally glancing at me. “And now you’re mad. I knew I shouldn’t have said anything.”

I pant next to him, furious, but trying to tamp it down. Bryce will ignore my anger until I’m calm enough to talk like an adult—because in Bryce’s world, adults never lose their tempers.

Only, I’m struggling to keep myself under control. I did notskipbreakfast. I’d hoped we’d grab something on the way to campus. But now, he’s decided I skipped food on purpose, and there’s no way to convince him he’s wrong.

I force myself to take deep breaths, my right thumb digging into my thigh, my fingers tappingone two three four five, one two three four five, one two three four fiveon my leg, working myself down from my rage. Bryce grimaces next to me as I force out another breath.

“I knew you wouldn’t want to hear it,” he says.

I want to argue that if I hadn’t asked, he’d have sighed for the next two hours until he couldn’t keep it in, dumping it on me at the worst possible moment. Then he’d be pissed when I cried. But I don’t. Instead, I say what I know he wants me to say. “I’m sorry, Bryce. It just took me by surprise.” Clearing my throat, I follow the script, preventing a full-blown argument. “I don’t think I’ve put on any weight, but this shirt is new. Maybe that’s it.”

He stares out the windshield. “You know how much I hate change, Clara. That’s why I wanted you to stay with me all summer.”

Not this again. “I know, Bryce. But I needed a car to nanny, and my dad could share.”

“Why couldn’t you just work at that coffee shop?”

Weaponized forgetfulness should be banned. “I told you last spring that they have limited hours in the summer, and it pays a lot less than nannying.”

Bryce runs a hand through his hair, his nostrils flaring.

The rest of the drive is silent.

Eventually, we pull up to the swank new-build apartment complex Bryce picked out for us. I can barely afford my half of rent with what I saved from nannying, but it’s close to the med school, so it’s ideal for him. He drives into the garage under the glass monstrosity, pulling into his assigned parking spot. The engine clicks as it cools, counting the seconds before he turns and takes my hand. “I really need this year to go well, Clara. Med school is different from undergrad. I need your support.”

Brushing my thumb across the back of his hand, I wonder how hard the first few weeks of med school must have been for him to be this on edge. “I know, Bryce. I’m here for you, always. You know that, right?”

He leans forward and pecks me on the lips. “You’re a key piece of this future I’m building, you know that, right, Clara?”

I nod, wanting to say the right words, but not trusting myself to find them.

“Come on,” he says, “let’s get you set up.”

We both pull boxes and bags from the car, heading to the elevator. I hit the call button, but when I turn around, Bryce is back in the parking lot, handing a cute teenage girl some cash from the ground, my box of shoes by his feet. He says something I can’t hear, his smile bright, and the girl giggles. He waits for the girl to scurry to her car before he scoops up my box and meets me in the elevator.

Walking into the apartment, I’m unsurprised to find it clinically boring. I brought decorative pillows, towels, and sheets to make it homey. Bryce equates color with chaos; I find the lack hollow and cold.

Without fanfare, Bryce settles onto the couch with one of his textbooks and a highlighter, my box of shoes forgotten by the door.

I almost ask him to help. I’d imagined us unpacking together, him praising me for the subtle floral design on the dishes or the softness of the thrift store towels I bought. But med school is different from undergrad, so I guess I have to reset my expectations.

Four trips to the garage later, I have all my things piled on the floor in the living room. Needing a chance to catch my breath, I grab a glass of water from the kitchen sink. As the kitchen is as good of a place to start as any, I pull delivery cartons and boxes from the fridge, the dates scrawled on the tops in Bryce’s jagged handwriting. Anything over five days old gets tossed into a garbage bag. The waste makes my stomach grumble and my wallet weep. All that food, just forgotten. I glance at a tub of yogurt, my mouth watering, but with Bryce as grumpy as he is, I decide not to risk it.

Eventually, I find a corner in one of the cabinets to squeeze my dishes into.

That done, I curl up on the couch, my knees brushing Bryce’s thigh. I’ve missed being close to him, touching him. Phone calls aren’t the same as being with the person you love.

Bryce shifts away, brushing his pants where my knees touched him. “Not now, baby. I’m concentrating.”

“Sorry,” I whisper, tugging my pigtails. What am I doing wrong?

Heading to the bedroom, I find a handful of dirty shirts on the floor—Bryce’s definition of an unlivable mess. I toss them into the hamper in the corner, wishing for music while I tidy and unpack. If only Bryce wasn’t so picky about sound, I’d be having a full-on dance party while I settle in. Maybe later, when he’s out of the apartment, I can turn the music up high and just let loose.

Straightening the handful of knick knacks Bryce has on the dresser, I pick up the framed picture of the sunset over Lake Superior he’s had since before we met. It’s always been right across from the bed, like he wants to see it every night before he goes to bed and first thing every morning. I put it in the middle of the dresser, his commemorative varsity baseball to one side and the broken tip from his all-state winning ski pole on the other side.

Sneaking into the living room, I grab a few dresses on hangers from the pile and shove them into the closet. On my second trip, Bryce grumbles under his breath. On my third trip, he slams his book shut and glares at me. “Could you possibly be any louder? I don’t think the people on the first floor heard you.”

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