Page 49 of Pieces of Ash
A yearand the memory of that night can still double me over.
Magdalena Rojas was a user. A thief. In one night, she stole my dreams and my future. She destroyed my reputation and mycredibility. She shattered any chance of my having the life I had worked so hard to build.
She broke me.
And Icannotlet it happen again.
I stare down at what remains of my dinner, my heart thundering with something that feels like panic. There’s still a chunk of pasta left for Bruno, but instead of putting the bowl on the floor for him, I cross quickly to the door.
No more dinners, damn it.
This has to stop.
I push through the barn door, stalking toward the house, only to find Chicken ’n’ Biscuits sitting on the back porch in her favorite chair, a forkful of pasta in one hand and an open book in the other. She looks up at the sound of my approach, her face brightening with a smile before her brows furrow in confusion. She senses my anger and sits up straighter in her chair, her smile gone by the time I’m standing before her.
“No more dinners,” I spit, practically throwing the bowl down on the porch floorboards, then putting my hands on my hips as I glare at her.
“I’m sorry?” she asks, her expression startled and confused.
Part of me—the part that would want Noelle treated with kindness were she in a similar situation—feels like a shit heel, but this conversation is a hundred and fifty percent necessary. In fact, it’s overdue. I don’t trust her. Ican’ttrust her. If we’re going to share this house, she needs to leave me alone and stay the hell out of my way.
“Don’t. Cook. For. Me. Any. More.” I enunciate each word just to be a dick. “Got it?”
“I…I don’t know.”
She blinks at me, and even though I steel myself, I’m not prepared for the hurt that seeps into her big blue eyes, making them glisten. I’m about to soften when an image of Magdalena’sbig brown eyes, glistening with similar tears, takes front and center in my mind.
“Are you hearing-impaired?” I ask. “I don’t want any more fucking dinners.”
She winces like I just smacked her, and I wince inside, hating myself.
“You didn’t…like it?” she asks.
Her question takes me off guard. “It was fine.”
“Then why…?”
“I…I asked you to stay out of my way, and…and you’re not doing that.” I take a breath, then release it in a huff. “You’re just…bothering me.” My eyes slide down to her breasts, which are small and round, like twin globes, pushing against the front of her T-shirt. “You’re bothering thefuckout of me.”
“Oh.”
“Cut it out, okay?”
“Okay,” she says, blinking as she lowers her gaze and stares down at the bowl of pasta in her lap like she’s lost her appetite. I know she’s going to cry, and I know I caused it, but man, I just don’t fucking want to see it.
“Anything else?” she whispers.
“No. That’s all.”
I’m about to head back to the barn, but she surprises me by looking up, and although her eyes are shiny, she somehow keeps her tears from falling. Suddenly I have a terrible notion that she’s had a lot of practice at that, and it makes me feel even worse.
“I’m sorry,” she says softly, her voice gentle but strong. “I’m sorry I’m here. I’m sorry I fed your dog. I’m sorry I cooked for you. I’m sorry for all of it.” She pauses for just a moment, her eyes searing as they stare unrelentingly into mine. “Will you forgive me?”
It takes me several seconds to realize she’s waiting for an answer. She’s waiting for me to actuallyforgiveher, and the terrible irony of her request is not lost on me, since I’m the one yelling at her, and she hasn’t done anything wrong.
“Um.” I gulp. “Yeah. Fine.”
“You forgive me,” she confirms.
