Page 73 of For Cowgirls and Kings
I walk into my house, the giant interior unfolding in front of me. I’m pretty sure every damn light in the house is on, but I can’t be the least bit annoyed, not really. Not when there’s sounds of voices filling the hallways, and the overwhelming smell of lavender floating from the main room.
Dale’s been here a matter of hours, and I can already feel her warmth filling the cracks of my sterile and lonely existence.
As I move into the living room, I realize it’s only Dale, the TV, and a fluffy orange pillow that’s busy playing with its own tail making all the noise.
“I’m home,” I say, hoping to not scare her, but she doesn’t even shift or acknowledge me, and it breaks my fucking heart. I’ve never seen her so down, so dark—not that I blame her—but I just don’t know how to help her.
After standing behind her like a creep for far too long, I move around the front of the couch, and set the pizza I’ve been carrying on the coffee table. Luckily, that get’s her attention, and something akin to sadness and memory fills her eyes, before she blinks it away.
“Pizza? I figured you had a private chef who made you steak and potatoes every night,” she snarks, her hand running along Tut’s back. I follow her movement, and then shake my head.
“He’s made himself comfortable.”
“Shouldn’t he? Not like he had any choice in the matter.” I know the words are more about herself than the cat, but I don’t argue.
“I’ll grab plates.” I move toward the kitchen. “And my private chef only comes in twice a week, and meal preps abunch of stuff. I can cook for myself, I’m just too busy a lot of the time.”
Walking back into the living room, I notice Dale’s moved, throwing the top of the box open, and looking at the pizza hungrily. Her eyes flick to mine, down at the plates and then she straightens.
“I’m good,” she states, pushing away the box.
My mouth flops open—What the hell?“What are you talking about?”
“I said, I’m good, Mateo. I’m not hungry.”
I set the plates down, and sink down on the couch next to her, but still far enough away I’m not touching her. That only seems to piss her off more, and I can see her eye the stairs like she’s ready to flee.
“Please, talk to me.”
“Why? You already think I’m disgusting, or broken, or whatever,” she growls, glancing at the clear space between us.
“No, I’m trying to be considerate, Dale. You’ve been through so much.” She flinches, and I lower my voice a fraction, shifting closer. “I can’t eat this entire pizza by myself, even if I did like pineapple.”
She rolls her eyes at that. “You do like pineapple, you’re just stubborn.”
“And you love it. So what’s going on?”
Rage crosses her face a second before it crumples. She looks down at her hands, her fingers flexing and straightening over and over. “He made me do horrible things with my hands—eat when they were”—she licks her lips, wiping away a stray tear—“dirty. I can’t eat with my hands, Mateo.”
White hot rage punches through me, so consuming I stand like I’ve physically touched the flames. I suck in a ragged breath, and then march into the kitchen, returning with two forks and knives. I sit down again, this time far less careful to where she is.Our thighs brush, and I force my anger to dissipate before opening my mouth.
I just can’t believe what she’s been through. I can’t understand why someone as good as her had to endure something so horrible.
And I know I don’t even know the extent of it.Not yet.
I extend a plate, fork and knife on top, to Dale. “I like to use silverware anyway. I just didn’t want you to call me a snob.”
She eyes the plate and silverware, and then reaches out taking them into her lap. “You are a snob,” she states, extending her plate to the box—a silent request for my help.
With a heart that feels like it will burn to ash in my chest, I slide a couple slices of pizza onto her plate, careful not to show her the rage boiling just beneath the surface, and then do the same for myself.
We sit in comfortable silence, forks and knives scratching the plates as we eat our pineapple pizza.
I need to help her, and soon. I just don’t know where to begin.
TWENTY-EIGHT
ADALENE
