Page 81 of The Cupid Chronicles

He douses his plate with syrup, and I take that as permission to do the same. “Okay.”

“Okay, I should still tell you, or okay I shouldn’t?” I ask, taking the syrup. Because these new rules I’ve made for myself are getting more and more difficult to interpret. What I know Ishoulddo is in direct conflict with what Iwantto do.

He shrugs. “It looks like you need to talk about whatever you need to talk about, so . . .”

To me, that’s permission.

“I think sharing too much turns people off,” I say. “I mean, that’s my guess. I have this problem with telling people my whole life’s story when they really didn’t want to hear it. I think I do it hoping they’ll share back?” I pause because sharing about my oversharing is still an overshare. “They usually don’t. They usually avoid me like the plague.” My laugh is a little self-deprecating.

I mindlessly cut my French toast. “I’m one of those people who doesn’t really like a ‘get to know each other period.’ I dive in. Headfirst. No life vest. I want to be best friends with everyone from the jump, and I want everyone to like me. It’s like a sickness.” I spear a piece with my fork but don’t eat it, and then say, “So when I moved here, I decided to activelynotbe that way.”

“To activelynotbe yourself,” he says.

I laugh. “I mean, let’s be real, I’m a lot . . .”Too much, but I don’t say so. I glance up and find him frowning at me.

“So, someone told you that you’re ‘a lot,’ and you believed them?” He nods at my fork. “Taste it.”

His question hangs in the air as I lift the bite to my lips. Before I eat it, he holds up a hand to stop me from moving.

“Slowly,” he says, eyes dipping to my mouth. “Taste every flavor.”

I do as he says, chewing slowly, savoring every bite, trying to discern each flavor I watched him put into the liquid before soaking the bread, and for a fleeting moment, I understand why he eats so slowly.

I can safely say that I’ve never in life tasted something like this. I quickly stab another piece, but he catches my eye, and I resist the urge to snarf.

The textures, the sweetness, the crispiness of the outside with the velvety custard inside . . . it’s amazing.

And it’s just bread.

“I lied before.Thiswould be my final meal,” I say, after I’ve swallowed the bite.

He smiles. “Good?”

I shake my head in culinary disbelief. “How in the world have I been missing this?”

He flips the towel over his shoulder and starts in on his own. “Good.”

“And yes, to answer your question. Someone told me I was a lot. Well, not just ‘someone’—several people. More than several. When you’re a lot, you’re a lot.” I look at him. “I’m a lot.”

He arranges another perfect bite on his fork. “So, how’s it working out for you—this plan to become a totally different person?”

“Eh, fair-to-middling,” I joke, knowing I’m not exactly succeeding right now.

I take a drink. “I’m just, you know, holding back a little so I don’t scare people off.”

He looks at me, confused. “If you’re scaring people off, Iris, then they aren’t the right people.”

I force myself not to look away for what feels like a full three hours, and then finally, I glance down at my plate. Because he’s right. They’re never the right people. But also—why does he make this sound so simple?

I glance up. “Is that why you don’t pretend? I mean, you’rereallyembracing this salty attitude.”

“No.” He gives his head a little shake. “I don’t pretend because I don’t care what people think.”

I laugh. “What’s that like?”

“It’s brilliant.” He smirks. “You should try it sometime.”

My eating has devolved into devouring again, and I have to physically remind myself to slow down. “I can’t relate.” I shrug. “I want to be loved.” A mental facepalm. “And I didn’t really mean to say that out loud.”

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