Page 29 of Homestead

“It blew out of the bag.” I wince as I stand up because my back catches. I take a deep breath and step over to the big sack of flour. I closed it earlier, but I check to make sure it’s securely tied. “I took care of it.”

“Okay good. Well, I got these. We can work on ’em tomorrow since it’s kinda late.” He looks around. “What were you thinkin’ ’bout for dinner?”

There’s nothing—nothing—he could have said that could have made me angrier. It’s almost impossible for me to push down. “I… don’t… know,” I manage to grit out, hefting the sack of flour and putting it back in the cabinet under the counter where it belongs.

“You don’t have somethin’ planned?” He sounds light. Genuinely curious. Not annoyed or judgmental.

But it doesn’t help improve my mood. “No.” I pick up the rag I was using and scrub the counter with it, rinse it off, and wring it out. Wring it out very hard. “I’ve been working all day and haven’t had a chance to figure out dinner yet.”

“Oh. Okay. You want me to?—”

“No. I don’t.”

I am trying—I really am—to moderate my tone, but the words come out harshly anyway.

“You mad about somethin’?” He steps over and puts a hand on my shoulder, turning me around so he can see me.

I jerk away from his hand. “No. I’m not.”

His frown is deepening. His shoulders stiffen. “Sure seems like you’re mad.”

“I told you I’m not. I’m tired. I’ve had a long day.”

“I asked if I could help you. You said no.”

“I don’t need your help to get my chores done. I can do them myself!”

His expression is changing. It’s not just questioning anymore. He’s definitely looking annoyed. “I never said you couldn’t do ’em. Why the hell you actin’ this way?”

“I’m not acting any way!” That was an outright lie. I’m shaking with upset and indignation, and there’s no way I can contain it all. “I just said I hadn’t figured out dinner yet.”

He breathes heavily as he stares at me. Rubs at his beard. “If somethin’s wrong, you gotta tell me what it is, Chloe.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything!” The words snap out before I can stop them. Then I hear them. Hear my angry tone. And am slammed by a wave of fear.

What in the world am I doing? Putting everything I’ve gained at risk in some sort of irrational temper tantrum.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out, suddenly desperate to fix things. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I think I got too tired. I’m fine. It’s all fine.”

His expression relaxes at my altered tone, but he’s still frowning deeply. He looks utterly baffled. “What did I do wrong?”

“You didn’t do anything wrong. I promise. It’s all me.” I cover my face with both hands and stifle an almost uncontrollable sob. “I’m really sorry about the whole thing. I’ll do better.”

“But you’re upset.”

“I said it’s fine. I’m just tired.” If he doesn’t shut up soon, I’m going to burst into tears right in front of him.

“Okay.” He takes a few more loud, long breaths. “Well, if you’re tired, you should take a break. Why don’t you sit down for a little while?”

“I’ve got to make?—”

“I’ll clean these fish and grill ’em up. We can have ’em for dinner with some of your bread. Looks like it came out good.”

He’s trying. I can see and hear that he’s trying to fix things. Fixme. And it makes me feel worse. A tear slips out of one eye, but I swipe it away—hopefully before he noticed it. “But it’s my job to make dinner.”

“Why is it your job?”

“Because I do the inside stuff. That’s what we agreed.”

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