Page 23 of Forgotten Sacrifice

“So everything I do is your business, and nothing you do is my business?” I challenge.

“Now she’s catching on,” Vince says with laughter in his voice.

I flip him off with a greasy finger, and he chuckles. “Do you have any ranch dressing?” I ask, popping a fry in my mouth.

“Ranch?” He looks like I’ve slapped him across the face. “Why the fuck would you need ranch?”

“You’ve never dipped fries in ranch? You’re missing out,” I inform him.

He makes a face. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“A man set in his ways. How…bland,” I taunt.

Vince smiles, walking to the pantry and returning with a bottle of malt vinegar. “Try this and tell me if it’s bland.”

It sounds disgusting, but since I accused Vince of being set in his ways, I’d be a total hypocrite if I refused. Pouring asplash of the brown liquid on my plate, I dip a fry in it and take a bite. “It’s pretty good.”

“Pained you to admit that,” he says.

“Not as good asranch, but good.”

“So much I’ve got to teach you,” he chides.

“So much I’ve got to teach you,” I counter.

“Says the eighteen-year old.” He flashes a bemused smile.

“Says the fifty-year old,” I say to rile him up, but he snorts a laugh. “How old are you, anyway?”

“Thirty-four. Not over the hill quite yet.”

“If you need a push down that hill, let me know,” I tell him.

He smiles, leaning across the table. “Piccola, I have no doubt you’re more than ready, willing, and able to lend a hand.”

“I’m handy,” I agree, darting my eyes to my food.

There’s a weird energy in the room; I guess because Vince and I are getting along.And we’re back to what in theactualfuck.

We finish lunch in silence, and I bring my dirty plate to Vince, who’s standing next to the open dishwasher. Our fingers accidentally brush each others, and I drop my hand so fast it causes the plate to fall, shattering into pieces. “I’m sorry,” I stammer, years of conditioning causing me to flinch.

“Luna, I’m not your old man.” Vince chides.

“I know that,” I snipe, hating that little bits of vulnerable Luna are seeping out like air from a deflated birthday balloon.

I squat down to clean up the mess, but Vince jerks me up by my arm. My eyes wide, he says gently, “Sit.”

I walk over to the table and have a seat, watching as he silently cleans up the mess. He grabs another plate from the cabinet and knife from the drawer, and I’m stunned when I see what’s in the box.

The thoughtful gesture nearly has me in tears until he brings me a piece, and I see the decorations up close. It’s alovely cake with white frosting and yellow buttercream roses. I grit my teeth.

“What’s wrong?” Vince asks, confused.

I grab the plate and storm across the kitchen, scraping the piece of cake in the trash. Slamming the plate down on the counter, I march to my bedroom and lock the door. Tears blind my eyes as I slide to the floor, wrapping my arms around myself.

Yellow roses symbolize friendship, but Vince said it himself: don’t mistake him for a friend.

Vince