Chapter 31

Chiara

I don’t know what I did to deserve this.

As I lay there, with a throbbing broken ankle, I can’t decide if the pain I feel the most is from the fact that I’m in Vedant’s house or from my recent injury. Every time I remember where I am, I nearly flinch.

I can’t reconcile it. The boy who hates me, who blames me for his brother’s death, offered up his home to let me recover in it. I suspect he wants me to get better quickly for the doubles competition, and that’s the only reason I’m here.

Either that, or he’s hoping to torture me now that we’re alone in a house together.

Still, I told myself a hundred times that staying here, even temporarily, was a terrible idea. He hates me, after all, and yet I can’t help but admit that I feel safe here despite my better judgment.

There is a stillness around me that is somewhat calming, and even though it is early in the morning, there is something about the way the golden, rising sun casts light into the bedroom he has set me up in that fills me with a strange sense of peace.

I observe the lightening guest room and can’t help but feel a twist of embarrassment. Now that he has offered up his home, I am in his debt. Sure, I saved him by sacrificing my poor ankle to break his fall, but he’s been unexpectedly kind. Suspiciously kind, in fact.

And maybe I should repay the favor. I don’t like being in anyone’s debt.

So, with a tremendous amount of effort, I pull myself out of bed and hobble into his kitchen on one good leg and the crutch he had given me yesterday. He told me it was from when he had broken his own foot years prior, and I am grateful for this as I navigate my way around his home.

I open several cabinets and the refrigerator to take inventory of all that I can make do with. Eggs. Toast. Coffee. A frying pan. Butter. It is a simple enough task, but I hope it will express my gratitude. I pull out a carton of eggs and get to work.

The sound of sizzling food fills the quiet quickly. I stir the eggs until they’re fluffy and toast the bread until it's crisp. The smell of coffee fills my nostrils and makes me sigh.

Then I hear footsteps.

Vedant appears in the doorway, hair damp from a shower, sleeves rolled up, looking like he’s confused. His brows are pinched as he takes in the mess I’ve made of the kitchen island, which is strewn with ingredients.

“What are you doing?” he asks, eyes narrowed as though he is suspicious of my motivations.

I blink. It seems so obvious. “Making breakfast?”

His reaction is strange. I didn’t expect him to jump for joy at my cooking, exactly, but his wariness feels unwarranted.

He steps closer, studying the stove like it might explode at any moment. “You don’t have to do this.”

I shrug, flipping an egg. “I wanted to. It’s just breakfast.”

He hovers awkwardly, like he’s afraid to sit. “You didn’t have to cook. I could’ve ordered something. You didn’t have to make all of this. In fact, I wish you hadn’t.”

My smile falters. “...Excuse me?”

I feel my stomach sink to my feet. Surely I’m misreading this. He can’t be this appalled by my attempts to return his hospitality.

He winces, running a hand through his wet hair. “I mean—it’s not that this isn’t edible. Probably. It’s just a little… um, smoky?”

He’s looking at my plate of toast, which I suppose is a little dark. Still, it feels like an unnecessarily cruel assessment.

“You don’t have to eat it,” I snap, suddenly filled with indignation. “I was trying to do something nice for you, but clearly you would rather not deal with me.”

He looks startled. “I didn’t say I—”

But I’m already grabbing my crutch, my ankle protesting as I limp toward the hallway. I’m hurrying despite the pain; I need to leave this room and escape his scutinous attention. All of the sudden, it’s too much.

“Forget it,” I say. “Next time, I’ll let you figure it out on your own. Toss out what I made and go hungry for all I care.”

I don’t look back, but I hear him sigh. The sound follows me all the way to the guest room. I close the door behind me and lean on it, trying to quell the swirl of emotions that is threatening to sweep me away.

In the quiet of the guest room again, I promise myself not to cry. I won’t give him the satisfaction of bringing me to tears, nor will I make the mistake of showing him my earnest kindness ever again.

Vedant

I’m still staring at the half-burnt toast long after she has shut the guest room door, partitioning us.

What the hell just happened?

One minute she’s in my kitchen, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, cooking breakfast like she’s lived here for years. The next, she’s looking at me with this pitiful puppy dog look like I just kicked her without warning.

I run my hands over my face, trying to piece it together. I was going to thank her, but she never gave me the opportunity. She was so quick to take what I‘d said as an insult and storm out. I hadn’t even had the time to finish my thoughts.

Admittedly, I’m horrible with compliments, and I thought she’d appreciate the honesty. I pinch a piece of toast and think about how I didn’t even get to suggest that next time we could cook together and make sure the house doesn’t catch fire.

Apparently, I had made all the wrong moves.

The smell of eggs lingers, and suddenly the kitchen feels too quiet. Too empty. The sizzling I had come downstairs to has ceased, and utter silence has descended. Something about it feels particularly heavy.

Maybe it’s the guilt that’s weighing on me. She risked herself for me during practice, after all. She broke her ankle saving me. And this morning, she looked happy while she cooked. Even as she put her pride on the line, she had seemed so pleased.

And I’d ruined it.

I take a deep breath and pick up the plate of toast she left behind. I bite a slice, and the toast crunches like gravel when I bite into it, but I chew anyway. It’s not great and could use some jam, but… It’s something she made.

She doesn’t trust me yet, and I don’t fully trust her. But I messed up, and I feel guilty. She swallowed her pride to make me this dry toast, so I can swallow my pride and apologize.

I wipe my hands along my pant legs, steel myself, and head toward the guest room.

I knock gently on the door. “Chiara?”

No answer.

“I ate the breakfast,” I say, leaning my forehead against the wood. “All of it. Even the burnt toast.”

I try for levity, but only quiet follows.

“It was good,” I add.

There’s another pause. Then, faintly, she says, “You’re a terrible liar.”

A small smile tugs at my mouth. “Maybe. But I’m a grateful one.” I swallow dryly. “Thank you.”

Silence again. Then, a quiet sigh. It comes from so close that it sounds like she is leaning against the door, just like I am. Only a panel of wood is separating us, and that makes me feel.. Strange.

“You’re welcome,” she finally says.

There’s another pause, but this time, it feels warmer.

I walk away before she can change her mind, an odd lightness in my chest.

Maybe this whole living arrangement won’t be the torture we both expected.