“I'll go grab a snack from the table, Father,” I said in a rush, hurrying to the long table covered with delicacies. Putting a healthy distance from Vince's cold stare. My steps were hurried and unsteady; I was also tripping because it felt like he was looking at me, and it got my insides twitchy and tense.
I grabbed a pie and stuffed it into my mouth, still not looking in his direction, for fear of our eyes locking.
It seemed Father was already with him because their low baritones reverberated in the room.
Good. Maybe a light discussion with Father would water down that anger in his eyes.
Eating when I'm nervous is a habit I'm trying to get rid of, but it's just so hard. Because here I am again, doing the same thing, stuffing my face with more pies. Like it would make me feel any
