He’d even told her a little about his dad—Grandma King’s only son—who’d died in prison, awaiting appeal after being found guilty of a crime that he absolutely wouldn’t even have been charged with if he were a white man. Thomas had told her that was why his grandma had become a lawyer. She couldn’t bring his father back, but she could do her part to create a more just world.
Tasha had loved them both so much—Thomas and his grandmother.
But Grandma King had a stroke and left them way too soon, and then Tasha turned eighteen and detonated her relationship with Thomas by stupidly climbing into his bed.
For years, she’d only looked at the outcome of her folly from the perspective of what she’d lost. But now it was hard not to see what she’d done to Thomas. One by one, he’d lost all of the important people in his life, through no fault of their own.
Except for Tasha, who was completely to blame. She’d taken what they’d had—that special, innocent childhood bond—and deemed it not good enough. She’d pushed for more—too hard, too far, too fast—without stopping to consider what Thomas might want or need. She’d thought only of herself. And she’d completely ruined what they’d had.
And because she was Alan’s niece, she’d jeopardized Thomas’s friendship with him and Mia, too. And maybe she hadn’t just jeopardized it. For all she knew, because of her, Thomas had put distance between himself and her aunt and uncle. For all she knew, Thomas had full-on stopped seeking advice from the man who’d been his mentor in the Navy. For all she knew, she’d fully screwed that up for him, too.
So now here they were. Trapped alone together in a relatively small space, for God knows how long. And everything Tash had taken from both of them was right there, in her face.
The teasing nicknames. Wild Thing, Martian Girl, Princess. The ability to know what he was thinking simply from meeting a gaze that was now understandably guarded. The easy way they’d once laughed together.
“You okay?”
Tash looked up to find Thomas standing in the kitchen doorway, sweatshirt on but sleeves pushed up to his elbows. She was wearing a towel like a hat, but he was clearly plenty warm. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
“Glaring at that package of oatmeal with your best Hello my name is Inigo Montoya face is fine?”
“You killed my father, oatmeal. Prepare to die.” Tash adapted the famous quote from The Princess Bride, another movie they’d watched together a few hundred times—back before she’d ruined everything. “No, I’m just clueless about food rationing. I honestly don’t know where to begin.”
“Sure you do, because you’re doing it right,” he said, coming into the kitchen and gesturing at the meager supply she’d pulled down from the cabinet. “Step one, inventory what we’ve got.”
They’d already eaten two jars of peanuts, the entire box of cornflakes, the cold almond milk, and the OJ between last night and this morning, so all that was left was coffee, tea, two boxes of almond milk, the oatmeal, the spices, and a large unopened bottle of olive oil.
Tasha had also grabbed one each of the peanut and olive jars from the storage room, counted them up, and written on a piece of paper Peanuts 19, Olives 24, like the score from some weird sporting/cooking event. The olives were winning on paper, but the peanut jars were nearly twice as big.
However, if they teamed up, they’d vastly overpower the other food.
Bottom line: peanuts and olives were going to get really old, really fast.
“There’s also beer,” Thomas pointed out. “Lotta carbs. Like drinking bread.”
“Oh, great,” she said. “Beer on an incredibly empty stomach. Nothing whatsoever could possibly go wrong.”
He shot her the eyebrows-raised look that she recognized as his warning that he was about to start using the word awkward a lot.
“We can heat it,” he said. “Lower the alcohol a little.”
Warm beer on an empty stomach, even better. She didn’t say it aloud, but from the smile he now gave her, he knew she was thinking it.
“I’ll drink the beer,” he told her. “You can have the oatmeal.”
“That’s hardly fair,” she protested. “I’m not eating your share of the oatmeal, like I’m some extra-hangry Goldilocks.”
He talked over her as he went into the pantry, clearly ignoring her. “There’s sugar in some of the sodas and mixers, so we shouldn’t forget that, but we don’t want to include the bottles of diet in our count, that crap’s worthless in terms of calories.” He counted quickly. “Fifteen two-liter bottles of sugar water, a half a case of wine, and a case and a half of beer.” She’d followed him in, and he turned to look at her, clearly pleased. “That’s a very good inventory, with the peanuts as protein, and the olives as a source of fat.”
“What, no Vodka’s just like drinking potatoes?” she asked. “Also there’s more wine in the kitchen wine fridge.”
“Prince T has a wine fridge,” Thomas said. “Of course he does.”
“Had,” Tasha said. “Past tense. We’re talking about Tedric the first. My Ted’s more of a beer guy. Although, he would definitely keep wine on hand, for guests.”
My Ted.
Thomas glanced at her, so she knew the words had registered. And for a half of a second, she almost thought he might say something. Like, bring up the conversation he’d started last night, about her Ted clearly using this secret hide out for his activities with guests, and why didn’t that seem to bother her...?
Instead, he said, “If we reach the point where we need to break open the vodka, we’ll be drinking it along with the rabbit we’ve roasted for dinner.”
“Please tell me that’s your Plan Z,” she said, “and that you really don’t think it’s going to come to us cannibalizing Bambi’s best friend.”
He squinted at her. “Pretty sure it’s only cannibalizing if we’re rabbits, too.”
“You probably want to bet on how many days of peanuts and olives it’ll take before I start sobbing and begging you to go out there and murder Thumper, to roast in some of that delicious-looking olive oil that’s in the kitchen,” she said. “Fine. I’ll bet you half of my share of the oatmeal that I’ll cave in just three days.”
Thomas laughed. “Actually, the oil will go well with the oatmeal. It’ll make it more filling. I’ll bet you go longer. I’mma say I cave before you, but some time well after day seven.”
Day seven...? “You really think we’re going to be here that long?” she asked.
He sighed as he realized he’d walked right into that, and he shook his head. “I honestly don’t know, Tash. But I do know this. The oatmeal’s not the prize. Winner gets twenty bucks, paid up after we get back home. Because we will get home. You can count on that. Now, come on. We’ll figure out what our rations are gonna be for the next few days, and then, if we need to extend, we’ll figure out full austerity mode for the next week or so after that. You’ll love this. This is just simple math.”
“I hate math,” Tasha said as she followed him back out into the kitchen.