[ For a moment Bastien looks considering and entertained—as if he might enjoy daring her to throw her slippers and vindictively pick through the nuts, to see if she really will. Because he would enjoy it, so long as it stayed friendly. He pretends at catching himself with his shoulders raised, halfway through a shrug, and badly covering it for it by rolling them as if they’re sore. ]
I am very kind to myself.
[ It’s a possibly cashew-forfeiting answer, and certainly an unfair one. A little unfair to Athessa, who Bastien expects would knuckle through the salt in her wounded heart if he asked her to listen to him whine about his relatively good luck. And very unfair to Byerly, who’s gentle with every vulnerability and anxiety he works himself around to voicing. But under the circumstances—general and specific, with her only stopped here before going up for a conversation she fears will go badly—telling Alexandrie how sweet Byerly is to him seems cruel.
For the sake of the cashews, he adds, ]
But I do worry. Of course I do.
[ About the three of them. About what he matters to Alexandrie more than about what he matters to Byerly, lately. About the two of them entwined half-dressed on the bed he hadn’t been able to sit on, the my Byerly and the kissing and murmuring about humoring Bastien over his foolish breakfast.
He’d rather step on a spike than unload any of that on her now, though. Instead, compromising, trying more than anything to not leave her feeling alone in having uncertainties: ]
In the beginning I was very sure that he was in love with you and only holding onto my hand because he was scared. I tied myself into all sorts of knots about it.
no subject
I am very kind to myself.
[ It’s a possibly cashew-forfeiting answer, and certainly an unfair one. A little unfair to Athessa, who Bastien expects would knuckle through the salt in her wounded heart if he asked her to listen to him whine about his relatively good luck. And very unfair to Byerly, who’s gentle with every vulnerability and anxiety he works himself around to voicing. But under the circumstances—general and specific, with her only stopped here before going up for a conversation she fears will go badly—telling Alexandrie how sweet Byerly is to him seems cruel.
For the sake of the cashews, he adds, ]
But I do worry. Of course I do.
[ About the three of them. About what he matters to Alexandrie more than about what he matters to Byerly, lately. About the two of them entwined half-dressed on the bed he hadn’t been able to sit on, the my Byerly and the kissing and murmuring about humoring Bastien over his foolish breakfast.
He’d rather step on a spike than unload any of that on her now, though. Instead, compromising, trying more than anything to not leave her feeling alone in having uncertainties: ]
In the beginning I was very sure that he was in love with you and only holding onto my hand because he was scared. I tied myself into all sorts of knots about it.