No.
Not that.
Absolutely not that.
“I feel bad,” I admit.
“About my sandwich? Little harsh, but fair.”
“No.” I look at the plate. “About all of this. The food. The house. The clothes. The women buying things. You sleeping on the couch. Everyone rearranging their lives because I showed up with trouble.”
Derby leans back against the counter.
August keeps eating, blessedly distracted by cheese and dinosaur commentary.
“You fed him plenty by yourself, didn’t you?” Derby asks.
I frown. “What?”
“Before us. Before this. You fed him, dressed him, kept him alive, got him here.”
“Yes.”
“Then stop apologizing because somebody else gave him a sandwich.”
The words hit harder than they should.
My eyes sting.
Derby’s voice roughens. “You ain’t stealing food. You ain’t taking charity out of a baby’s mouth. The women brought groceries because they wanted to. I cooked because I was hungry and the kid was sniffing cheese like a bloodhound. Eat the sandwich, Amelia.”
It sounds almost like an order.
Almost.
But there is something under it.
Not control.
Impatience with my guilt.
I pick up the sandwich again.
“Okay,” I whisper.
He nods once and looks away like he can’t handle having been kind for that long.
August finishes his first triangle and points at the plate. “More.”
Derby slides him another. “You are small and yet bottomless.”
“I’m growing.”
“Into what? A horse?”
“A dinosaur.”
“That tracks.”