Kindred by J. A. Redmerski Page B

any case,” he goes on, “if you get sick, I’ll bring you soup and Ginger Ale and stuff.”
    I can’t hide the blush in my face and absently I pick up my fork and poke around in my rice just to distract from it.
    We’re situated next to a window that overlooks the parking lot. The sun shines fiercely, casting bright pools of light reflecting off car windows. The trees are green again and there are flowers near the entrance of the restaurant, though they had probably been planted recently by some landscaping service.
    Business is beginning to pick up at the restaurant as the day wears on; mostly small families who, by the way they’re dressed, look like just came from church, or something.
    Feeling guilty for wasting so much food that I didn’t pay for, I lift the fork barely into my mouth and eat a small bit of rice from the end of it.
    Isaac reaches across the table and places his fingers on my wrist, slowly lowering my hand. I let go of the fork and just look at him.
    “If you don’t feel like eating,” he says, “don’t worry about it.”
    I sigh. “I just hate it that you—”
    “No”, he interrupts, “that doesn’t matter to me and you know it—I thought we were past this already.”
    Pulling my legs up onto the seat, I cross them comfortably under the table and place my folded hands into the hollow of my lap. I let out another deep breath and lean my head back against the seat.
    Last month, while standing in the concession line at the movie theatre, Isaac had made it perfectly clear that I could ‘never again complain or feel guilty’ about him paying for anything. I remember staring up at the ridiculous prices of popcorn and soda, refusing to let him pay for all that stuff after he had spent so much money on me throughout the course of that week. Lunch and dinner here and there. Blended iced coffee—he was to blame for getting me hooked on those anyway. A new leather purse I had just vaguely mentioned that I liked when we were in the mall in Augusta.
    After that, I’ve been careful not to mention my like of just about anything because I know he’ll go out of his way to get it for me.
    “I know,” I finally say, “but it’s the way I am. Besides, I hate to waste food, regardless.”
    The waiter strolls over. “Would you like refills?” He goes to reach for my half-empty glass, but I decline. Isaac nods to the waiter, indicating he will take him up on the offer. “And please bring the check too, if you don’t mind.”
    “Sure thing,” the waiter replies while taking Isaac’s glass from the table.
    I raise my index finger and say, “And a to-go box, please,” just before he leaves.
    Isaac smirks and leans back in the seat, too.
    “ What ?” I say with a weak trace of laughter in my voice. “I can’t save it for later?” I tilt my head to one side, waiting for him to give in.
    Isaac shakes his head, surrendering.
    “I take it you’re going to pay for the gas in my car on the way to Portland?” he says, looking at me in anticipation. “The convenience store stops? Oh, and the I Love Portland t-shirts?”
    It started out as a joke, but somewhere between ‘convenience store’ and ‘Oh’ the jesting expression he wore failed under something more intolerant.
    “Adria,” he says, “I would never want you to change who you are, but with me, you’re going to have to at least try to let that independent wall down a few notches.”
    I blink, confused, and at first feel like I should be offended until he continues.
    “Why don’t you let someone take care of you for once?” he says. “Besides, I can guarantee you won’t win this argument, so why fight it?”
    He eats the last of his food and then moves the plate to the end of the table.
    I change the topic. He’s right, after all.
    “So,” I say pursing my lips and narrowing my eyes, “how many times have you gone off with your insane brothers to do stuff like that?”
    I catch the smile in Isaac’s face as he glances