Page 46 of Only and Forever

Helpful.

My stomach sours. I’ve been “helpful” to a lot of people over the years. I like to be helpful. But I’ve also learned what often comes after I’m helpful, when the way I’m simply trying to be useful seemingly becomes too much—whenI’mtoo much. Unaware that I’m doing it, I push and shove my way around, take it too far. Say more than I’ve been asked to. Suggest more than I should. That’s when people pull away. They like me for my helpfulness, until how I’m helpful bothers them, then they don’t. Then they’re done.

Not everyone’s done that, not my family, not some good people over the years who’ve shown me they like all of me—loud, chatty, inquisitive, curious me—and stuck by me, but enough people have to make me wary.

And I think that’s why I’m so pissed off. Because here I am again, with Tallulah Clarke, who already has a history of being all high-and-mighty, leaving me once more feeling like an asshat.

“I do appreciate the help,” Tallulah adds, her brow furrowed as if she’s confused, uneasy about how quiet I’m being.

See, Tallulah? Two can play this game.

“I’m just... unfamiliar with it,” she continues. “I don’t handle it well. And I coped by being petty. My blood sugar got a little low, too, which isn’t an excuse, just a context. I get moody and irritable when it’s low. So... I made you a sandwich by way of apology, and I know I keep saying sorry, but I promise, I’ll do better.”

I stare at her, turning her words over, glancing back down to the sandwich that she made me. I can’t remember the last time someone made me something to eat, except for Mom at family dinners, and more often than not, I’m right beside her cooking in the kitchen, happy to be there, but still... this is... rare.

It feels good.

And now, as I take another bite of my sandwich and weigh how to respond, having eaten most of it at this point and feeling remarkably more human, I can see that I wasn’t blameless in this situation either. I projected my way of doing things onto Tallulah—I wouldn’t budge on leaving the fake succulent when she confessed she just wanted a plant in her room that wouldn’t die on her; I insisted on us assembling the shoe organizers.

I was a bit of an asshole.

I was pushy. Not my low-level, good-natured, excusable pushiness, but my full-throttle, inconsiderate, steamrolling pushiness.

Chewing my last bite of sandwich, I brush my fingers off over the plate. “I’m sorry, too,” I tell her. “I was a pushy asshole back at IKEA. About the fake plant. About assembling the shoe organizers. We wouldn’t have been squabbling over the shoe organizers if I had just let you do what you wanted and pay to have them assembled.”

Tallulah peers at me intensely, head tipped. “I mean, yeah, you’re right. But that doesn’t cancel out my bullshit. I messed up. You messed up. We both did.”

Slowly, I push the plate toward her. “Truce?”

Leaning forward, she reaches not for a handful from the mountain of potato chips still left, but for the last juicy bite of dill pickle spear. Of course she does.

She pops it in her mouth, then says, “Truce. Now, you sit and eat your potato chips. I’ll chip away at this organizer.”

My stomach sinks. She doesn’t want my help anymore.

“Then,” she adds, spinning the instructions so she can see them, “you join me when you’re ready, and we’ll work together. How’s that sound?”

A smile that has no business being so wide breaks across myface. I duck my head, tugging down my ball cap, hoping I’ve disguised just how pleased I am. “Sounds great.”

—

Tallulah stands, arms raised in triumph, bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked. “We did it!”

I smile up at her, then glance toward the four finished shoe organizers neatly lined along her bedroom wall. “We did.”

“And we didn’t kill each other.” She bends and offers me a hand.

I high-five it, my smile widening. Hyped-up Tallulah is too damn cute.

“This,” she says, “deserves a celebratory drink. Whiskey?”

I frown. “I don’t have any. I’ve got some beers, though.”

She waves a hand. “I brought some. You can have a beer if you want, but I have earned myself a nice, neat pour of Lagavulin.”

“Laga-what-a?” I spring up, following her out of her room, down the hall.

“Lagavulin,” she says over her shoulder. “My favorite whiskey. When my book hit the bestseller list, Dad got me a bottle...” Her voice trails off.