Page 25 of A Breath of Life
Scoffing, I tossed the peanut butter spoon into the sink and crossed my arms, taking a stance and exercising my so-called bratty petulance, or whatever he called it. Oh, I remembered the cabin. The fire. The panic. The fear. Diem’s race to rescue me. But it wasmyinstinct that had gotten us answers. I was the one who had given a dying case direction. Without looking intomyhunch, we might never have solved it, and that case had been the pinnacle of saving Diem’s company. We wouldn’t be where we were without myflying on instinct.
I could have pointed that out, but instead, I rode the sass train right into the station. Iron Bull, meet Iron Bull. “Yeah, well, you’re six and a half feet tall and built like a fucking tank. How is that subtle?”
“It’s not.” Diem scrubbed a hand over his face. “My size is my downfall. I recognize that. I don’t blend well, but I’ve adapted. I use my strengths where I can. I puzzle out situations and make them work for me. When that doesn’t work, I get help. When you learn to rein it in and think before acting, you can take the riskier cases too.”
“You’re treating me like a child.”
“No, Tallus.” His voice rose. “I’m trying to teach you, but you don’t listen.”
“How will I learn if you don’t let me try?”
“Start by adopting those principles into your everyday life.”
I threw my hands up. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“You’re impulsive.”
“I amnotimpulsive.” I was extremely impulsive, but my defenses were up, and he was pissing me off.
Diem pulled the leather pouch from his pocket and dangled it between us. “Not impulsive? If I left this up to you, you would have conned Ruiz into helping you sell it on the black market, so you hadextra cash to spend on whatever Gucci Vuitton outfit bullshit recently caught your eye.”
“That’s… not a thing. They are two separate companies. And my clothing choices are not bullshit.”
Diem arched a brow. It was not the point, and I did not think about the wish list I’d made while at work because it only proved he was right.
“Fine. I’m impulsive.” I spun and tore open the new bag of pasta, dumping the entire thing into the boiling water. Dry noodles clattered over the counter and onto the floor, drawing Echo’s attention.
“For fuck’s sake. You’re making a mess,” he yelled, then, quieter, to the dog, “Echo, girl, don’t touch that. Go lie down.”
“You know what, Diem? I liked it better when you didn’t talk. Your grunts and growls left the conversation open to interpretation. Words turn you into an asshole.”
Whatever he said next came out in the exact growly incommunicado tone I was used to hearing at the beginning of our relationship. I pretended he saidYes, Tallus, you’re right, Tallus. I am an asshole, Tallus. It was unfair of me not to trust you with the card or to offer you better cases. You aren’t impulsive at all. You are smart and witty and—
The slam of our bedroom door jarred me from those make-believe thoughts. “Asshole,” I muttered, finding the broom to sweep up the spilled pasta.
What hurt most was that he was right.
In the six months I’d spent living with Diem, I learned a few things. Blending two lives was not easy, especially when our personalities clashed. As Diem learned to express himself with words and maneuver his feelings openly, I needed to learn when to shut the fuck up because not every thought had to be expressed.
We were both combative when provoked. His hair-trigger temper was not always easy to avoid. Our relationship was an ocean. It ebbedand flowed. Waves rocked us this way and that. Mostly, we worked together, holding each other up. We suffered each other’s flaws, but at the end of the day, it was those imperfections that made us who we were. It was the ability to see past those faults that created the foundation of the love we had for one another. We loved hard but fought without mercy.
On days like today, it felt like all we did was push each other underwater in a sick competition to see who could hurt the other worse.
I sassed, snarked, and grew irritatingly petulant—bratty, apparently.
Diem yelled and slammed doors, which also meant he would likely drink himself into oblivion later from a sheer lack of knowing how to handle the stress of fighting. Worse, he shut down and stopped talking. I hated that most of all.
He returned from the bedroom a few minutes later, marching to the door. “Come on, Echo. Get your vest on. Let’s go visit Nana.”
Echo bounded over, clearly pleased with that decision.
“What about dinner?”
“I’m not hungry.”
The microwave beeped as the front door slammed. The meat was thawed. Cursing, I turned off the element under the water, leaving the partially boiled noodles in the pot. I retrieved the peanut butter and spoon again and landed on the couch, turning on the TV.
Fuck it.
