I wasn't sure the acrobatic flipping of my stomach was conducive to eating at all, but the fantastic smells of butter, syrup and cinnamon rebelled against my instincts. "That's nice of you. It smells delicious." I wasn't convinced I could keep it down, but by gosh, I would try.
"Would you like jam or syrup?"
"Both, please."
Bryce feigned disbelief. "But what about your girlish figure?"
I rolled my eyes. "It will survive."
"Maybe." He pulled plates out from the cabinet and put them on the table with silverware. Then he brought out an assortment of sliced fruit and jam from the fridge. He placed them both on the table, next to a platter of golden waffles. It was quite the spread. I was surprised. Bryce hadn't seemed like the type of person who would have been so capable in the kitchen.
I helped myself to two waffles, placing a dollop of whipped cream on each, followed by a spoonful of raspberry jam, and a swirl of maple syrup. I would have to spend hours on the treadmill to burn off the calories. Oh well, it would be worth it if I could keep them down. My stomach groaned, whether from hunger or nausea, I was uncertain.
Bryce placed a steaming mug in front of me. I took a sip of the black coffee before chasing it down with a swallow of water. I sliced into the golden cake and made sure that every flavour was on my fork before bringing it to my mouth. My taste buds danced. "These are very good," I said to Bryce, who had nestled into the chair across from me. "Do I taste buttermilk?"
"You do. It's my grandmother's recipe."
"My compliments to you both, then." I took another bite. "I would never have guessed that you were any good in the kitchen."
He didn't seem insulted by my observation. "The list of things I can make with confidence is tiny, I assure you. I can only make waffles, eggs, or spaghetti, which is why I take advantage of your sister’s cooking as much as I can." I chuckled. "Maybe I'll make you eggs tomorrow."
That was unexpected. I thought my hangover had made me delirious somehow. "Tomorrow?"
"Only if you want to."
"Only if I want to what?" I wasn't quite sure what he was asking, which both embarrassed and frustrated me.
He looked at me as though I were daft. He must have thought he was obvious and direct. "Stay," he said. "I realize you have the executive suite at Le Shit-hole de River Bluff. But, if you prefer a dryer, cleaner establishment, I have more than enough room."
"Listen, it's nice of you to offer. But after last night, it's not a good idea." I took another heavenly bite of waffle. I could almost hear the wheels in his brain turning. I could see the exact moment when he realized what I was referencing. His eyes lost their playful shine, and he put his utensils down. He cleared his throat once before he spoke next.
"I'd like to apologize for what you overheard," he sounded sombre. "I shouldn't have said it, even if it was true."
My eyes widened. "If this is an apology, you suck at it."
"What I mean is, I did feel sorry for you -- at least at first. It's why I reached out to you. I love Lauren, and I wanted to extend kindness to you as a favour to her."
I leaned back in my chair; my arms folded across my chest. "How generous of you."
He ignored my jab. "I could tell you needed a friend, even if you wouldn't admit it. I knew I could be that for you."
I tried to keep my tone level and unemotional. "I have real friends. I don't need or want any fake ones."
"Jesus, you're stubborn. I'm trying to tell you something, but you're too busy being pissed off to listen. You're more like your dad than you care to admit."
His comment felt below the belt, but I could not deny the validity of his observation. In this one instance, I was my father's child --determined to be offended by something and someone. No explanation, no matter how sincere, would curtail my anger. I took a deep breath and made a note to discuss this epiphany with my therapist.
"I'm sorry," I said, mostly to remind myself that I was capable of the words. "I won't say anything else. I promise."
He sat silent for a few seconds, testing me. It felt like minutes. Finally, he continued. "It's true, I felt an obligation to be nice to you. Especially after I'd learned how rough you had it here as a kid. But that's not why I invited you out last night, and not why I'm inviting you to stay." True to my word, I said nothing. "I like you. I like talking to you. I enjoy spending time with you, and when you allow yourself to loosen up, you're hilarious."
"You could have told them that, you know. Rather than making me sound like an injured bird you were burdened with."
"Could I? You think that would have squashed it?" He sighed with exasperation. "You think they would have changed their minds, just because I vouched for your coolness? They've known you for thirty years, while I've known you for two days. Do you honestly think they would give two-shits about my opinion?" Hearing the words come out of his mouth, I knew how ridiculous they sounded. It wouldn't have mattered. They had made up their minds about me decades before. Nothing Bryce could have said would have made a difference. "I said the one thing I knew would answer their questions and need no further explanation. You lost a parent and deserved a break. Even a dick like Jack couldn't argue with that. I figured once they spent some time with you, they'd start to see you differently on their own."
His logic was sound, but a residual sting still pulsed within me. I understood his reasoning. Opinions changed based on experiences, not testimonials. I knew Bryce hadn't said anything wrong or untrue. I also agreed anything positive Bryce could have said about me would have fallen on deaf ears. A large part of me still would have preferred if he had tried. I would have appreciated the gesture and respected him more for it.
"I couldn't care less what those guys think of me, especially Jack Fielding. I seldom care what most people think of me." Another lie. Jesus, I was a big, fat phony. Wait. Maybe not fat.
Bryce seemed surprised. "I thought people in your line of work thrive on the opinions of others?"
I shook my head until a swallow of waffle had cleared. "Hardly. The networks sure care. The producers care also. Too much if you ask me. There are entire focus groups dedicated to approving everything about me. From the cut of my suits to the words I'm allowed to say on-air."
"That must get frustrating."
"Not really."
"You don't find it stifling?"
I shrugged. "I did at first, but now I understand the business of it. Those people are basing their opinions entirely on what they see. They don't know me. They don't want to." I set my fork down and patted my mouth with a napkin. "The person people see on TV doesn't exist. It's an image -- an illusion. It's a persona, strategically designed by a committee of people. So, I try not to waste my energy, caring what people think of that guy. He isn't real." I rinsed my mouth out with a drink of water. "When I do care, when it does matter, is those times off-camera, when I'm not pretending to be Parker Houston -- television personality. Those moments I get to be myself — just ordinary Parker. The list of people I get to be genuine with is very short. I care what those people think."