Withering Hope by Layla Hagen Page A

circumstances, and we're very careful to waste as little shower gel as possible.
    "What's your favorite color?" Tristan asks. At last he's enjoying our little questioning game and initiates it almost as often as I do.
    "White."
    "That's a non-color," Tristan says with a smile, tsk-tsking.
    "Well, it's the one I like most," I say defensively.
    "That's why you have so much white clothing?"
    "Yeah," I say, surprised he noticed that. I wore white a lot in L.A.
    He nods, as if considering something. "You look good in white."
    I blush slightly. One of the wavy short sleeves of the dress I’m wearing falls off my shoulder. I raise my hand to put it back in place as Tristan does the same. Our hands meet mid-way, and when our fingers touch, electricity zips through us. It’s so intense, I feel a burning sensation in my fingers even after we break contact. The warmth spreads from my fingers, rising to my cheeks, and I blush, confused, even more so when I realize Tristan is avoiding my gaze.
    "You look good in everything you wear,” he says, “Aimee."
    I flinch a bit at the sound of my name. I usually do when he says it. And he says it often, ever since I asked him to. I can’t pinpoint how or why, but it sounds different now.
    After a few minutes I ask, "What's your favorite meal?"
    He doesn't miss a beat. "Omelette."
    I snicker. "That doesn't qualify as a meal," I say, seizing the chance to get back at him for mocking my favorite color. "No one dreams about an omelette. That's a last resort food anyone can cook. Pick something else."
    "Well, that's what I like. I love an omelette for breakfast. It's a privilege to be able to eat one while sitting in a comfortable chair, reading the newspaper."
    That's a bit weird, but I let it go. Every day here must be a privilege for him since we eat eggs almost every morning, though boiled, not an omelette. Maybe it's his guilty pleasure. Like coffee is for me.
    I would understand much later that the privilege is not about the eggs at all, but something else entirely.
    "I don't know about omelettes, but I like my coffee in the morning."
    "I know," he says, smiling even wider. "At 7:00 a.m. sharp. With one spoon of sugar."
    "You're perceptive," I say. "What else did you notice about me?"
    "You like to change your haircut every six months and—”
    "Wow. You'd make a perfect boyfriend," I say, stunned. "Most men don't notice things like that."
    His expression hardens, and I bite my lip. Stepping into forbidden territory again.
    "I meant it as a compliment," I add, though I have the feeling that won't help.
    "I just like to observe… the little things," he says, clipping out the words. I mull them over for a few seconds in silence.
    "Your hands are almost bleeding, Aimee," he says, alarmed. "I'll wash the rest of your things too."
    I look at my hands and notice the skin has peeled off. If I continue rubbing clothes on the washboard, they'll be bloody in no time. My eyes dart to Tristan's hands. They are flushed, but in much better shape than mine.
    "Thanks," I say. The tension in his posture ebbs away, and I sigh in relief, glad to be out of the forbidden territory. Why is he so sensitive about his personal life? Maybe he'll open up. A week ago I couldn’t get him to talk at all, and now he's asking almost as many questions as I am. But he changes when I accidentally step into his forbidden territory with my questions. His eyes widen, while something I never associated with him creeps into his dark, vivid eyes: vulnerability. So much vulnerability that I want nothing more than to hug him and find a way to lead him to a place of safety. I can’t stand the torment in his eyes, the tension that suddenly claims him. Tristan grows on me more and more every day, with every kind thing he does to make things bearable for me, and every soothing word he speaks.
    As I watch him rub my jeans on the washboard, I wonder why the employee rumor mill in Chris's parents' household, which was a reliable source