Page 15 of Diesel
“I don’t know. Somewhere green. Remote.” She nudges my shoulder. “I know how much you hate people.”
I snort, sliding in beside her, the wall cold against my spine. “Not all people.”
Her smile is everything. I want to bottle it and keep it. “And we’ll eat fancy steaks until we are sick. Go to bed when we want, in covers that smell fresh.”
She closes her eyes as if she’s seeing it in her mind. I don’t know how she does that. How she builds creations that don’t exist.
“And eat cake until we’re sick,” I murmur, because I don’t want her vision to end.
“Now that is the dream.”
I offer her the bread again and this time she takes it. “What are you going to eat?”
“I already had something,” I lie.
She shakes her head and tears the bread in half, handing it to me with the hot sauce. “You eat too.”
The memory splinters as the tin hits the counter next to me. Makenna is still in the cupboard, pulling things out like she’s trying to salvage something out of this disaster.
“This is tragic,” she mutters. “I thought we were done scrounging for scraps.”
I grab her wrist, stopping her mid-search. Her eyes lock on mine, confusion dancing beneath the wariness I don’t like. “You’re never eating scraps again, Makenna. Not while I’m breathing.”
She frowns, and as always understanding blooms in her eyes. “I know. You always take care of me, Zane.”
“But it’s not enough?”
I’m not enough…
I let that hang between us.
She leans her palms against the counter, letting her shoulders sag. “You’re everything, and that’s the problem.” I don’t know what that means, but I track her as she walks back to the table and sits. “You don’t have to make anything. I’m not even hungry. In fact, I feel sick.”
That admission cuts something open inside me. I don’t want her to feel ill because of me.
But of course she does. I drove her to this.
I turn back to the cupboard, needing a moment to collect myself, but inside me a war is brewing.
And it’s one I intend to win.
FIVE
MAKENNA
He pulls together something edible,which is a miracle considering the junk he’s working with.
Just like he always used to.
His shoulders are tight as he dishes up the food, coiled tight. He’s holding on by a tangled thread and I’m the one tugging on it.
My instinct is to do what I always do. Soothe him, but I don’t know how to touch him without losing myself.
He sets a bowl in front of me, the smell warm and comforting.
Just one.
Nothing for him. He’s falling into old ways and I’m not sure if he’s doing it intentionally or if he’s slipping into the role he used to play before life got complicated.
