Page 8 of Under The Twilight Rainfall
Behind her back, Dex looks at me and mouths, “Like I had a choice.” I almost can’t stop the laugh that barks out, but I cover it with a cough and pull out a seat where Ma and Lola have already started setting out plates of food.
Dex blinks at the table, staring like he’s never had a sit-down meal in his life, then slowly claims the spot next to me. By the hunch of his shoulders and the way his eyes ping pong back and forth, he’s got to be feeling severely out of his element.
I want to put him at ease, but for all I know about Dex Ashford, how to pull him out of a spiral is the trickiest. So I’ve got to try and nip it in the bud before it gets that far.
“How many people does she think she’s feeding?” he asks as he tears his gaze away from the plates of food to turn to me. “This is enough for a small army.”
I snort, trying not to smile, but by the glower I’m sent I’m not successful. “Enough that no one goes hungry and there will be leftovers. Which we can take with us tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” His brow dips and he crosses his arms.
Dex tries so hard to be standoffish, to hide himself behind this hard facade that is so far from the real him that I see right through it.
“You didn’t think I’d send you off on your own, did you?”
“You know I’m not sightseeing, right? I’ll be working. And the point is for me to do italone.”
Checking to make sure neither Lola or Ma are listening in, I break into Dex’s bubble, our shoulders brushing and my hand resting on his knee. He stares down at it like I’ve stabbed him.
“I’ll be your lookout. Make sure no one catches you… indecent.”
He curses under his breath and shoves me away. Impeccable timing because Lola brings the plates of chicken and sets them beside the rice and greens and a bowl of just sauce. Usually we douse our chicken with the sauce in a big mixing bowl, but Lola remembers the stories of Dex’s first days in our house where he’d cough and gag at the strength of spices in our dishes.
For weeks he apologized for making us feel like we had to change how we ate just for him, but what he fails to understand is that Ma and Pa were happy to adjust anything if it made him comfortable. Fostering fulfilled something for them, something I couldn’t give them alone, and I don’t think he ever realized that.
It isn’t long before our entire table is filled with food and people. Theo takes a seat on the other side of Dex, with Pa close by to rein him in when he inevitably starts on one of his no-breather-question-sprees.
Ma and Lola take up my free side, and as everyone starts loading up their plates, I notice someone missing.
“Lola? Is Pop-Pop coming down?”
She gives me a tight smile, and I know today isn’t one of his better days. Some days are good, where he’s up and moving and tending the garden. His favorite activity is sitting outside and reading when the weather allows it. But sometimes he struggles to make it out of bed. It explains why Lola may have gone a bit overboard on the food—because it might take Pop-Pop a couple of tries to keep any of it down.
I must sit too long without touching my food, because warm breath and a few strands of hair brush my ear suddenly, followed by Dex’s low voice, “You good?”
I nod, tongue suddenly too thick for words. I’m not sure if it’s over worry for Pop-Pop or the fact that Dex is so close willingly, and for the briefest second—blink and you’ll miss it—Dex’s hand hovers over mine under the table. His fingers squeeze my clenched knuckles, and then they’re gone as if they were never there at all.
He’s absorbed in his food and a three-way conversation with Pa and Theo, and I give my head a good, hard shake to stir me out of my funk.
These next two weeks are about proving to Dex that there’s at least one person in the world he can trust, can rely on. Even if he never wants to see me again once it’s over, I need him to know how special he is, that he deserves so much more than he lets himself have.
I’m under no illusion Dex will ever feel the kind of love for me that I do for him, but that doesn’t mean I won’t give him all of mine, all of me, in the hopes that one day he can take it and give it to someone he’s willing to stay for.
Because someday he’ll get tired. His wings will be wind-bruised, and he’ll be in need of a place to land. If I can’t be that for him, I want to make him believe that there’s someone out there who can.
Asdinnerdragson,as the conversations get louder and longer, my focus starts to wane. My fingers twitch and tap on my silverware. My leg shakes under the table and rattles my chair. I’m not even the one who notices. It’s Valen’s hand coming down on my knee that brings my attention to the movement.
Motion is so ingrained in everything I do that it’s second nature for my body to buzz either from my thoughts or from the jitters.
I want to shove his hand away, to tell him to stop comforting me, but I don’t want to cause a scene. And for some godforsaken reason, I touched him earlier. His eyes had gone dark, and a worry line had formed a dip in his brow. Ever since I first saw him at the airport, Valen has had some sort of smile on his face, except for at that moment.
I didn’t fucking like it, and that’s the fucked-up thing.
There was a time where sitting at a table full of people smiling and laughing would be my dream come true, would have meant the world to me. Now it makes my eyes burn. Makes me feel like a volcano on the verge of eruption.
I want to run away. Want to throw my chair back, disappear through the door, and never see any of their faces again. They bring up memories. Memories I thought were long since buried and slapped with neon “Stay Away” signs and Dex deterrent.
Checking out in the middle of a family dinner has to be one of the top ten rudest things you can do, but I’m climbing out of my skin, and the only way I can think to deal is to… turn off.
