Page 64 of Unhinged Love

She barks out a laugh full of jaded bitterness. “Yeah, you could say that. Nothing’s ever good enough. I am not the daughter she pictured herself having. She wants somebody more like herself.”

A gold-digging whore with fake tits and an overly inflated self-worth? “I kind of got that feeling.”

“I’m nothing like her. I guess I don’t have to tell you that.”

I wouldn’t be going to all this trouble if she was anything like Irene. “I kind of got that feeling, too,” I reply with a smirk over my shoulder.

She watches me add the pasta back to the pan with the butter, then as I pour in the milk and eggs while stirring quicklyto make sure nothing scrambles on the bottom of the pot. “You know what? You asked me about my mom.” As I start stirring in the cheese, I ask, “What about your dad? I’ve never heard anything about him. Do you see him ever?”

“I haven’t seen him since I was two years old.” There’s no emotion behind it. She’s just telling me a fact.

“Oh. Am I sorry to hear that, or am I glad to hear it?”

“I don’t really feel any way about it, personally.” But her sleeves are pulled down over her fists, and she looks like she’s trying to shrink into herself. That’s never a good sign. “I mean, he was gone before I turned two. I don’t remember him. I could walk past him every single day, and I would never know.”

As she talks about it, I can tell she’s gone over it in her head before. The way she just rattles off her thoughts without any emotion. “Of course…” Now I hear something leaking in. Disappointment, maybe, or sadness. “Mom spent more time than I even want to think about reminding me how happy they were before I came along and how he wouldn’t have left if it wasn’t for me.”

That bitch. “Jesus Christ.” The way I’m stirring this pasta, you would think it pissed me off. If only it was as easy as punishing a pot of macaroni. Like that could make up for everything Irene did to her.

“I know, right? Careful there,” she says when a few noodles jump out of the pot.

“God forbid she’d take any blame for herself,” I mutter, picturing Irene’s overly made-up face and scowling. “But come on. Knowing her, I can’t imagine how happy they really would’ve been.”

Elliana’s mouth falls open before a loud, almost joyful laugh fills the room. I can’t help but laugh with her, and it feels good to share the moment. It would’ve been nice if we could’ve been this honest with each other from the beginning, but there wastoo much standing in the way—mostly me. I took too much out on her. She was suffering, really going through pain, and I made it all about me.

“That’s it?” she asks when I stir in a little sriracha, salt, and pepper. “It’s that simple? I thought you were supposed to bake it.”

“You can, but not this recipe. That’s the beauty of it. You just throw it together and stuff your face.” Handing her a fork, I invite her to take a taste, and find myself watching closely as she samples it. When a bright smile blooms as she chews, I know I did a good job.

“What do you think? Should we watchIron Man 2?” Pulling a couple of bowls from the cabinet, I shrug. “It seemed like you were into the first one.”

I can’t believe what it does to me when her eyes light up, and she nods enthusiastically. “Yeah! I want to see what happens next. But is that really the one we should watch first? Isn’t there another movie that got released between them?”

“I didn’t know you were so interested.”

She snickers, spooning macaroni into her bowl. “I might have looked it up, okay? Sue me. I want to do things the right way.”

“There really isn’t a right way, if you ask me. We can watch the second movie.” I’m just glad she wants to watch in the first place. I haven’t found a girl yet who gave a shit about that kind of thing. Not that it’s my reason for living or anything, but it is one of my interests, and Elliana taught me something: I like sharing my interests with people who get it. She gets it. The last person I would ever expect to take an interest in anything I care about.

But then, so much of her has gone beyond my expectations. I was wrong about so many things.

Yet she still wants to sit with me in the living room, our feet on the coffee table, bowls in our laps when the movie starts. I can’t pretend to pay a lot of attention to the action on screen—besides, I’ve seen it before. I’m more into her reaction. I can’t stop watching her from the corner of my eye and remembering what I thought about her when Irene first brought her here.

I would never in a million years imagine sitting here with her, eating something I made, hanging out like we’re friends.

We’re more than friends.

I don’t know how she feels about that, but it’s pretty damn obvious there’s more to this than either of us wants to admit out loud. I can’t stop thinking about everything she’s been through, how lonely she must’ve been—especially when she couldn’t even rely on her own mother to give her a little comfort. She has been on her own for so long. I don’t know what to do with this feeling of wanting to give her the things she’s missed out on. I never knew how easy I had it until I met her. I never really gave much thought to what other people struggled with.

We’re going to have to watch it again, or at least the last half hour, since she’s out cold. Must’ve been all the carbs, or maybe it’s just being exhausted by everything I’ve put her through lately. I can’t imagine she’s been sleeping super well, probably dreading when she would have to show her face in public again.

That’s why, instead of waking her up and teasing her about not being able to make it through a whole movie this early in the evening, I quietly clean up after us, then turn off the TV when the movie’s over. She’s still asleep, curled up with her head against the cushions and her feet tucked under her. It’s nice seeing her so peaceful.

Once I slide my arms under her, she mumbles softly. Her eyes open maybe a millimeter, and she mumbles again, but instead of telling me to get off her, she cuddles up against me with her head on my shoulder by the time we’re on our way to the stairs. It feels much too good, taking care of her. Even something as simple as making Mom’s macaroni and cheese is almost enough to make me proud.

Carrying her up the stairs, putting her in bed, it makes me feel warm inside. Like I’m doing something right.

And it’s a feeling I want to last, which is why, instead of leaving her on her own, I crawl into bed with her, inhaling the scent of her shampoo when I settle in with my nose close to her hair. So many years she’s been alone. I need her to know she doesn’t have to be alone anymore. If she wants me to, I’ll be here for her.

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