Page 56 of Cakes for the Grump
Or not.
His voice is closer now. A lot closer.
I force my eyes open.
Luke is beside the bed, having braved the carpet despite its putrid color, spotted pattern, and overall ragged appearance. And as always, his height dwarfs objects within the vicinity, but in this case, in the particularly tight space of my bedroom, I can’t help but feel especially minuscule with him towering above me.
It takes a bit, but I find my voice again. “I’m not answering anythingabout crypto,” I say, “because it will go over your head, and I don’t want you to feel like a tittering idiot.”
Those last two words are spat out, but it’s like Luke can’t discern my tone because his mouth curves up. “I’m glad. Really glad. If you’re thinking about sparing my feelings, it means you don’t hate me.”
Is he serious? Has he forgotten what happened in his office? Has he forgotten everything he’s said and done to me? He thinks I don’t understand the real world because all I do is dilly-dally in his kitchen and bake cakes. “Of course, I think you are the worst!That’swhy I want you to go away.”
I shut my eyes again.
Above me is a fractured release of air, akin to a ragged sigh. Luke clears his throat before speaking in an oddly low and deliberate voice.
“You can’t live here.”
Snapping awake again, I fix my gaze on his face.
“You can’t stay here.” His eyebrows furrow. “It’s not safe. It’s not—not you. You can’t live here.”
“What makes you think you can dictate that to me? Not after you’ve been so horrible. Do you even remember everything you said to me?”
“I know?—”
“Do you? It wasproperbullying. I fucking bought you soup.”
“Rita, I know.”
“Do you?” I repeat because I’m not convinced, and also because I’ve not told him off in enough scalding detail for him to really understand his wretchedness, which is an unfortunate consequence of my current sickness. I can’t think as clearly as usual, and therefore can’t insult as proficiently as I normally would.
Though in retrospect, further scolding is not needed because Luke picks up that gauntlet himself.
“You—you surprised me the other day,” he slowly admits. “When I’m in the office, I have to be—different, not myself, and then you were there. And all I wanted was for you to not be. To not see me like that, but what I said to make you leave… I had no right to say any of those things.” He sighs again. “If you hate me, fine. I’ll take it, but don’t leave. Come back and yell at me, insult me, abuse me, but come back.”
That’s as close to an apology as Luke Abbot delivers.
Should I mark this occasion down for future analysis? Instead, I consider his words carefully. He’s not himself at work?He has to be different? Does the CEO position at Abbot Industries come with an asshole clause? I want to ask him, but my brain hurts. I’ll dig into it. Later. For now, he’ll get abuse from me, alright.
“Your hair isn’t nearly as perfect as it should be for the time you probably spend on it.”
His gray-blue eyes widen.
“You’re so pale that sometimes I lose you in the room because you’ve faded into the background.”
His mouth tips down.
“I question your fashion sense.”
He puts a hand to his chest and staggers back a step.
I’m forcing my mouth into a sneer. “Can’t take it, big boy?”
“I can. Circle back to the part where I’m big.”
“You left out boy.”
