Page 93 of Hate Me Like You Mean It
He hung up.
“Well, well, well. I guess it wasn’t a robot after all.”
“Are birds allowed in here?”
Maxwell, who was comfortably settled on Robert’s shoulder, perked up when he saw me approach, his wings and tail fanning, his head starting to bob in an excited little dance.
Robert gave a soft snort, adding a sugar cube to his tea. “It’s my hotel. Who’s gonna stop me?”
“The health department, to start.”
Maxwell gave a long whistle that drew the amused attention of the family seated at a nearby table. One of the kids jolted and ducked when he took flight, but it was me he was after.
“Hey, Maxi.” I gave the side of his neck a gentle scratch when he landed on my shoulder, a reluctant smile tugging at my mouth. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t missed the little terror. For the longest time, we’d been united in our complicated feelings for our shared nemesis.
“Hello, Fruitloop. You’re a fruitloop.”
“Don’t think I’ve forgotten about this morning,” I chided him lightly. “We made a pact that you were allowed to ‘accidentally’ shit on one person and one person only, remember?” And it wasn’t me.
“Don’t be mad, okay? You’re being a bad boy, Maxi. It’s time for a mango treat.”
I took a seat across the booth from Robert. “He’s lost weight,” I said, offering Maxwell a slice of cucumber from the small bowl of vegetables and fruit I assumed had been ordered just for him.
Robert clicked his tongue. “The little adrenaline junkie hasn’t had anyone threaten him with a good spit roasting since Alice moved out. He’s not interested in stealing food now that the thrill of imminent death is gone.”
A small pang hit me in the chest. “He misses her.”
Gampy considered me for a long minute. “He missed you more.”
Guilt knifed through me, and I dropped my gaze as Maxwell hopped onto the table, picked a small blackberry out of his bowl, and placed it in front of me. “Good boy want a mango treat?”
I didn’t know what gutted me more, the gesture itself or the flash of sadness that crossed Robert’s expression. Confused by my reluctance to accept such a delicious and generous offering, Maxwell nudged the berry closer with his beak, then tilted his head tentatively to look up at me. “Good boy gets a mango treat.See you after school, Fruitloop.”
“Thanks, buddy,” I murmured before picking up the berry. I popped it in my mouth, even though my throat had shut, making it impossible to swallow.
Maxwell hopped back to his bowl, picked up another berry, and placed it in front of me. “See you after school, Fruitloop.” He whistled, raising to his full height.
I accepted the gift. “Thank you, Maxi.”
He rose higher, watching me, waiting.
“He wants you to say it,” Robert supplied.
I was aware. He wanted assurance that I’d come “home,” but that wasn’t going to happen. Forcing myself to swallow, I gave him another little scratch. “I tried to tell him I was leaving.”
“But the rest of us hadn’t earned the same courtesy.”
“You accused my mother of theft, Robert. It was the biggest betrayal?—”
“Oh, save it,” he scoffed. “No one, not a single person in our household, thought your mother took the jewelry. There were no accusations made, and you’d know that had you picked up the damn phone.”
The resistance in my gut grew darker, more bitter. But for once, I acknowledged it for what it was: a mask for the underlying fear. He was right. I was so deep in this hole that I couldn’t see the opening anymore. I had no idea how to get out.
I dragged my teeth over my upper lip as Robert strategically let the silence stretch.
Once I’d gathered my thoughts, I reached for my wallet. My copy of the picture was bent around the edges and had a jagged white line running down one side, having served as a nearly daily visual reminder over the last eight years as to why I needed to keep going. Keep building. Keep collecting. Stay angry.
I placed it on the table.
