Daryl moves around the table, picks up Mom’s spoon, feeds her another scoop of mush, and wipes her mouth when some oozes out again. He does it all with grace and a practiced ease that he probably gained when he was nursing his reclusive great aunt on her deathbed. He’s so practiced, in fact, that he manages to complete the whole process while staring at me, and although he’s silent, his eyes are filled with fire.
I gulp, and a too-big chunk of potato snags in my throat. “Did I say something wrong?” I ask once I’ve choked it down.
He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly, as he shakes his head. “Next time,I’mgoing to make dinner,” he says quietly. He sounds like he’s trying really hard not to be angry, and I lower my fork to my plate, now sure I said something wrong, or even worse, he doesn’t like my food.
“Why are you…?” My voice trails off, and I look around for a way to fix the situation. “You want some dessert? I think there’s ice cream.”
I push up from the table, but Daryl puts his hand on mine and looks up at me with sad eyes. “Sit down, beautiful girl. I don’t need ice cream. I don’t need anything at all, and you’vealready given me more than I ever thought I could be offered.” He takes a bean from my plate, puts it in his mouth and smiles. “Please.”
I lower myself back into my seat, and he loads my fork again and sets it in my hand. “Eat. You’re hungry, and you need your strength.”
I accept the fork and watch him as I chew.
He nods toward my Dad’s covered plate waiting patiently on the counter and loads up Mom’s spoon again. “Does he ever saythank you?” he asks, holding Mom’s bib closer to her chin as he feeds her. “For any of this?”
When I don’t answer, he turns back to see my face. His lips thin into a line, and he nods. “So that’s anothen?”
I shake my head. “He says it all the time when we’re out. And that has more impact, right? If others get to see and hear how proud he is of me.”
Daryl runs his tongue over his teeth behind his lips. “Would it mean as much to you, or more, if he told you he was grateful when nobody else was around to witness it?”
The words hit me like a slap, and I swallow down the lump in my throat. I know exactly what it means if I’m triggered by that question. It means I don’t think Dad’s gratitude is sincere. That he’s happy to say it in front of others to make him look grateful, but when it’s just him and me, he takes it for granted that I’ll always do what’s needed. Because that’s my job. Nothing to be grateful for there, is there?
I scowl at Daryl. His words are making me look at things a different way, and I don’t want to believe my feelings about it. I don’t want to believe Dad’s gratitude is only shared to keep up certain appearances of him being a good father and me being a good girl. That he doesn’t care how I feel, only how I’m perceived. I don’t want to believe it, but I know it to be true, and there’s no changing that truth.
Tears threaten to fill my eyes, so I look up at the ceiling and refuse to let them flow. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Itmatters,” Daryl growls. “Cady, I’ve gained more appreciation for you in the space of half a day than I have in the four years I’ve known you existed — and I was already a massive fan on dayone. It’s actually overwhelming how fucking amazing you are, and I want you to know it both in public and in private — even though we only have one of those options right now.”
It’s hard to look right at him when my eyes are burning hot with my cheeks. My chin trembles, and I quickly firm my jaw and look away, trying to compose myself. “I’m not used to so much praise, Daryl. You’re going to have to tone it down a bit.”
“Never,” he says flatly. “It’s not praise. I just give credit where it’s due, so you’ll have to get used to it.”
I turn back, and he shrugs. “It’s just how it’s going to be, Cadence Malone, so there’s no sense in pretending it ain’t. I’m going to keep reminding you that you’re a wonder until you remember that you are, so feel however you want to feel about it.” He feeds Mom her last spoonful and wipes her face before returning his attention to me. “What’s next in her routine? Brushing her teeth? You want me to start walking her to the bathroom while you finish your dinner? I watched how you helped her from her chair to the table. I think I could do it.”
I stare at him.
“I’ll be careful,” he promises, apparently mistaking my awe for hesitation. “Or I could clear up and do the dishes while you do it, if that makes you more comfortable.” He looks me over and nods. “I can do that.” He gets up, moves to the counter, and opens the dishwasher.
My tears burst their banks, and I wipe them away. “Why are you like this?”
“Like what?” He turns back and notices my tears. His brows lift, and his eyes become sad. He closes them, pinches the bridgeof his nose, and then comes to crouch in front of me. He takes my hand in both of his and meets my gaze. “Tell me something, Cady. If we were at my house, looking after my mom, would you offer to help?”
“Of course.”
He nods. “Exactly. Because you’re a good person. Anyone who sees you struggling and doesn’t offer to help, is an asshole. Okay? It’s that simple. Your dad’s an asshole. This whole town is full of assholes. Except for Michelle, who does a good job with your mom, but she also gets paid to, so although she might be I’m not going to assume she’s part of the asshole club. But you know what I say to assholes, Cady?Fuck ‘em.”
I snort softly. “Sounds about right.” I reach out and turn the shiny barbell threaded through his nipple. “It’s a pity you’re not an asshole,” I say quietly. “Because I really only want to fuck you.”
He grins. “Oh, I’m an asshole,” he assures me. “Guaranteed. I’m just not an asshole to you.”
Or kids or the little guys or animals.
I give his nipple piercing a gentle tug. “I appreciate that.”
“I can tell,” he says, still grinning. “You also appreciate how fucking sexy I look in your teeny, tiny, Pony-Pie-pink sweatpants.” He stands tall again, smacks his ass, and sashays back to the sink. “Eat your dinner and tend to your mom, so I can make out with you some more before I have to put my own clothes back on and head home across the fields.”
I pick up my fork again. “I think you meanPinkie Pie. But it’s still kinda disturbing that you know the color of aMy Little Ponycharacter.”
