Page 41 of Malaise
“In a nutshell, that my stuff is in the garage when I’m ready to get it.”
Carver drops the spoon he’d been holding into the bowl with a loud clang, and places both palms on the counter. “Are you shitting me?”
“Afraid not.” I move around him tentatively to pick up the container of muesli and pour some into the bowl. “It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not.” He slams the heel of his right hand down to get his point across. “Fuck’s sake, Meg. You’re still a fucking kid in the eyes of the law, and here they are throwing you out like yesterday’s trash.”
I flinch at the venom in his words and focus on not spilling the milk as I pour it over the oaty mix. “I’m not a child, Carver. I can take care of myself.”
“Like you did last night?” he snaps.
I frown in an effort not to cry in frustration, and pick the bowl up to carry it over to the table. “Okay, so I screwed up. But do you have to keep rubbing it in my face?”
He huffs out his nose and leans back against the edge of the bench as I cross to the adjoining dining room. “I’m not trying to rub it in. It’s just that….” He shakes his head, struggling with the words.
“I’m young? I’m vulnerable? Or would you like to go with inexperienced?” He remains silent as I set the bowl down and take a seat. “Everybody’s got to start somewhere.”
“And it’s not with milk after a night of heavy drinking,” Tanya helpfully supplies as she sweeps into the room.
My bowl is removed from under my chin and carried to the kitchen before I can protest.
“Have this, and I can guarantee the milk won’t be so fluid coming back up.”
Carver remains in the same position the whole time Tanya buzzes around him, prattling something about how alcohol changes the proteins in milk, or whatever. I’m not really listening. There’s a whole other silent conversation going on in the room.
He thinks I can’t do it.
“…as neither of you are really listening, I’ll just go.”
I snap back to Tanya to find her poised in the doorway, eyes flitting between the two of us. She frowns and sighs, shaking her head before she spins on her heel and disappears down the hall to hook a left into the lounge room.
“I guess Cocoa Pops are out of the question then, too.” Aww, come on. He doesn’t even smile. No lilt of the lips, nothing.
“If you can wait half an hour, I can whip up something better that doesn’t involve milk.”
Intrigued, I rise from the table and head over to where he still stands, arms folded and a dark promise that this conversation isn’t over in his eyes.
“Like what?”
“Get me the butter from the fridge door.”
I do as I’m told and set it down beside him.
“Golden syrup from the pantry, and if you dig around in the back you might find some cooking chocolate.”
“He draws and he bakes.”
“Got a problem with it?” he asks, head down while he slices off a wedge of butter.
“No. It’s kind of impressive, actually.”
“Glad you’re so easily won over,” he snaps.
I set the ingredients down as requested. The bastard refuses to look at me, even when I pointedly crook my neck to stare at him.
“Pot, Megan,” he demands. “Under the stove.”
I whip the cupboard open and push the pans aside to grab the only pot that I can see. “Is there a problem with me being here?” I straighten and set the pot down beside him. “Because if there is, just say so and I’ll walk.”