I’ve played out a hundred different scenarios in my head. All of them end with Tristan’s glassy eyes staring back at me as I stand over him in triumph.
There’s no sense of guilt attached to those fantasies, either. But then again, when it comes to Tristan, I have very little feeling left to give.
Utensils in hand, he stabs the chicken, skewers a couple of carrots, and shovels it all into his mouth to chew like a horse.
I can see the relief wash over his face. My own stomach roils with hunger.
I realize that I haven’t eaten much all day. I picked up a croissant and a cup of coffee from a bakery on my way to work this morning, but during my lunch break, I’d been dealing with a whole group of cranky old seniors who weren’t happy with the meal choice on offer.
By the time I’d managed to convince them all to eat—a negotiation process that had taken almost an hour—I’d been so tired that I retreated into a back room to close my eyes.
It was only supposed to be a minute or two. Just enough time to breathe and recalibrate.
But one minute turned into twenty, and by the time I woke up, all I could do was grab a yogurt cup from the staff fridge in the back before heading off to massage Mr. O’Malley.
I haven’t eaten a thing since then.
I move to the fridge and look inside.
Now that Tristan’s taken my share, all the chicken is gone. So are the roast vegetables.
The only thing edible is a bunch of neglected baby carrots in a little Ziplock bag at the back of the top shelf.
I take them out and start crunching on them. They do next to nothing to curb my craving for real food, but at least it staves off the hunger temporarily.
“Sit down,” Tristan directs me.
Left with no choice, I sit down directly opposite to him so that there’s as much distance between us as possible.
He eyes the bag of carrots in front of me. “That’s all you’re eating?”
“That’s all there is.”
It doesn’t even seem to register to him to offer me half his plate of food.
“Well, it takes work to keep that body tight,” he replies with a shrug.
I bite down hard on a carrot and try to remain detached. But I can feel him watching me now. Now that his hunger has been sated, he can focus on me.
“Jesus, you look like a fucking old maid,” he snaps. “I buy you so much shit that you never wear.”
“I’d prefer to buy my own clothes.”
“What happened to the lingerie I bought for you last week?” he demands.
“I hate pink.”
His eyes narrow. “It cost two hundred fucking euros.”
“I never asked you to spend that money,” I tell him. “I’d rather save up for a bigger house.”
“Why?” he demands. “So you can move your loser father in with us? That’s not gonna fucking happen. We could have a five-bedroom with a fucking pool out back and I wouldn’t let that old drunk live here.”
“He’s a gambler,” I correct automatically. “You’re the drunk, remember?”
He lets his fork drop to the plate with a clatter.
I should know better than to piss him off. Especially when he’s drunk.