Page 57 of Even Robots Die
My family always treated those kinds of outbursts as if they were just some kind of crisis that would pass once I calmed down.
Not that they happened very often, and maybe that was the problem. Since they didn’t happen very often, they always thought it was just a fluke.
They considered it to be out of character for me, so they chalked it up to whatever reason they deemed fit. Hormones, exhaustion, or simply a bad day.
And I’ve come to think about them the same way, as if there was no real reason for my fuses to blow after all.
Hearing Brice and what he has to say is like a cold shower, though.
It’s an odd feeling, because it makes me feel seen, but all at the same time, it makes me feel like I shouldn’t listen to the man.
He’s been nothing but a pain in the ass since I arrived here.
Hell, he might be paying me for the job, but he started by holding me against my will.
“Why should I trust you?” I ask after thinking things through for a minute.
My question seems to stop him with his glass of wine barely a couple of centimeters from his mouth.
“You shouldn’t trust me at my words,” he says and then takes a sip. “I know I have no right to expect you to open up after the last few days.”
He sighs.
“But I’m a father,” he adds. “And if my daughter ever had to go through even a fraction of what you just told me, I wouldn’t be able to look at myself in the mirror.”
Ouch. Comparing me to his daughter is a low blow.
Not that Cassiopé isn’t the sweetest and the most cunning person I’ve ever met, but she is his daughter, and suddenly I know my attraction to him—even if only physically—is one-sided.
He looks at me and all he sees is the fact that I could be his daughter.
I wasn’t entertaining the idea of anything between us, but it’s still not a happy thought.
Liar. Those dreams of yours say otherwise.
Shut up.
“It’s not like you would feel bad anyway,” I mumble to myself.
As soon as the words slip from my mouth, I immediately regret saying them. It’s not his fault he can’t experience any emotion right now and worse, I’m supposed to help with that and I’m nowhere near finished.
I shouldn’t pour salt on an open wound.
But, again, it’s not like my barb is going to hurt him, anyway.
“Right,” Brice answers. “That doesn’t mean I don’t know how to tell the difference between what is right and what is wrong.”
His tone sounds final and I realize why when he puts his—empty—glass of wine back on the table and stands.
“Take the night off. Sleep. Watch a movie. Or whatever you do when you’re not working,” he tells me as he fills his glass again. “But don’t go back to work.” He pauses and looks down at me. “I’ll know if you went back to the lab. I mean it. You need to rest. I don’t care if it means you’re resting for a day or a full week, but you’re not going back to the lab until you can hold your eyes fully open.”
I straighten my back. I’m about to tell him off when he cuts me.
“You’ve been slouched in your chair for the past five minutes, and I don’t think you’ve seen anything that’s entered your mouth so far.”
Touché.
He walks to the door with his glass of wine and before he disappears and finally lets me eat in peace, he adds, “I mean it. I’ll know.”
