Page 39 of Infinite
“Yes, she said I’ve healed nicely.”
My body has at least. Six weeks is all it takes apparently. That’s all my insides needed to heal. If only my heart could feel that way. In that time, I’ve only grown colder, sadder, and less...alive.
“That’s good. I’m glad there weren’t any complications.”
I nod once. “Yup. Good thing.”
My mother’s smile falls. I can tell she’s trying to keep her thoughts to herself. “Are you happy about the move?”
I shrug. Happy? No. I don’t even know what happy looks like anymore. She wouldn’t believe me if I lied, so it’s best if I appear blasé about it. “It is what it is.”
“And what exactly are you right now?”
I look up, watching her watch me. “What does that mean?”
“Exactly what I said, darling. You’re allowing your loss to consume you. You’re basically nothing, so I’m asking what you think you are. Are you the girl who would defiantly tell me no and walk out? Are you the girl who would fight to the death if someone she loved was in trouble? Surely, you’re not this void of a person in front of me, right?”
“Can we not do this?” I ask. I am really not in the mood. My mother might be the only person alive who could break through to me, which was why I tried to cancel this week. I knew if she got me alone she’d find an opportunity. It’s why she sent my father to his hunting cabin. He never goes during the week.
Ever.
This was all a ploy. Now, I’m starting to wonder if Quinn’s check-in on Aaron wasn’t arranged as well.
“When would you prefer to do it? Next week? Tomorrow? Never?”
“Never works.”
Mom doesn’t react. She places her spoon down, grabs a piece of bread, and butters it before putting it in front of me. It’s a simple task. One that wouldn’t mean anything to a normal person, but this is us. My mother doesn’t do anything without purpose. She knows that bread with butter is my comfort. I haven’t had a single slice since that day.
I don’t want comfort.
I don’t want bread and butter that I dip in . . . soup.
I look down at the bowl, another twinge of awareness dawns on me. “Soup, bread with butter, I’m surprised you went for stew instead of pasta fagioli.”
“I thought that might be too obvious.” Her eyes never move from mine. “It’s been weeks, and you have pulled yourself so far into this place of protection that I felt drastic measures were in order.”
“You won’t get me out, Ma.”
She smiles as though she has zero doubts she will. “Eat your bread.”
I cross my arms in defiance and anger. “I don’t want bread.”
“Take a bite, and I’ll talk. If you stop eating even once, I’ll wait you out and we’ll be here for days.”
This is her plan, to make the stubborn side of me rise in defiance. To make me so angry that I do as she says, break down, and become the Ashton I once was. She of all people should know that won’t happen.
I take the bread, raise to my mouth, and bite down. I wait for the feelings to come because she knows my weakness, but they don’t.
I feel . . . nothing.
Relief floods me. I’m immune to bread, and I couldn’t be happier about it.
I chew another piece, grinning at her with a look of glee that she tried to play me and it didn’t work.
“As I was saying, I don’t think you could fight if you wanted to because you’ve given up. I never thought you were a quitter.”
Something inside me twists with indignation. I’m not a quitter. I’m doing what I can to survive. I didn’t jump off a building or end my life because I was hurting. No, I found a way to cope. Is it the best? Probably not. Am I going to lose everything else? Most likely. Do I care? Maybe.
