Page 41 of When We Were More
I catch up with her as she continues through the living room into the kitchen.
“What are you talking about?”
“To say you can take care of yourself, but then, in the next sentence, say you can’t be too careful. Wouldn’t it make more sense that if youcan’tbe too careful, you’d wait and let me walk you to the car?”
“I have wine, or if you want, there’s some beer in the fridge.”
“Way to change the subject,” I say. “Also, look what I got.” I hold up the bottle of wine I bought before leaving the bar. She enjoyed it, and something in me wanted to do something nice for her.
Her eyes widen. “Is that?—”
“Yep. Want some?”
“Most definitely.”
I walk over to the refrigerator and peruse her selection of craft beer. I choose a wheat ale. When I see that she’s pulled out a corkscrew and is reaching for a glass, I grab the wine opener and uncork the bottle. She turns with the glass in hand, butbefore she can say anything, I gently put my hand on her wrist to steady it and pour her a glass. She’s quiet while I do and looks up at me through thick lashes when she pulls her wrist back.
“You’re not having wine?” Her words are hushed.
“No. I prefer a beer. I bought it because you really seemed to enjoy it.” She pulls the corner of her lower lip into her mouth, and her cheeks turn a pale pink.
“Thank you. That was nice.” Her voice is hushed. She almost seems awed that I’d do something—even this simple—for her. Jesus, what kind of men has she been with if a gesture this small surprises her?
“You’re very welcome. It was my pleasure.”
She pierces me with her eyes, and I have no idea what she’s thinking. She watches me for several moments.
“Before, I meant that you can’t be too careful withpeople. It’s best to keep your circle small and not put yourself in a position where you need someone and they’re not there… or where they can hurt you.”
Shit, hearing that sentiment from her hits a little too close to home since it sounds similar to what I say about love and the pain it can cause. Oddly, it doesn’t sit right with me that she feels like that. I hate thinking someone or something did that to her.
Tillie grabs the bottle of wine and walks back into the living room, setting it on the coffee table. She climbs onto the couch and curls up with her legs tucked under her, her body angled toward me. I follow her lead and sit.
When I take a sip of the beer, it's not bad. I don’t plan on drinking much tonight, but I wanted to spend time with her, and this seemed like a setting she’d be comfortable with.
I glance at the end table and notice her inhaler sitting there. “Shouldn’t that be with you when you go out?”
“I have one I keep in my purse for when I’m out. Don’t worry about me. I’ve dealt with this for a long time.”
Seeing the inhaler brings back the memory of her telling me about her father lighting a cigarette in front of her. At best, doing that is recklessly inconsiderate, especially knowing how challenging certain environments can be for someone with asthma.
“I’m sorry you weren’t well on the holiday. Has your dad done that before? Smoked in front of you even though he knows about your asthma?”
She shrugs and looks down at her tights, picking at lint I can’t even see.
“My dad is… different. He’s not the kind of man who does anything for other people, especially if it puts him out.”
“Not smoking for a few minutes would put him out?” I can't hide the annoyance in my voice. “That’s ridiculous.”
“When it’s me, it does put him out, I guess. If it were my sister, it wouldn’t be a big deal. She doesn’t have asthma buthatesthe smell of smoke. He doesn’t smoke when she’s around. She doesn’t go to his house, either. He usually meets her somewhere or goes to my mom’s to visit her. They’ve always been close, and he’s different with her compared to me.”
“Do you see him often?”
“I see him more now since my grandmother passed. He was her son, and no matter how poorly he treated her, she never gave up on him. She went regularly to take him food, even though he was disrespectful and dismissive of her. Sometimes I get angry because I wonder if all the stress from worrying about my dad put extra strain on her heart and made it weaker. Not that he necessarily cared. He didn’t even come to the funeral. Neither did my mom or my sister.”
“Shit. I’m sorry, Tillie. I can’t imagine acting like that with my mom, and I definitely can’t even fathom treating one of my girls better than the other.”
I’m outraged for her. I want to find the guy and give him hell for making her asthma flare up. Add in the fact that his preferential treatment of one of his daughters over the other has hurt Tillie, and I’m furious.
