to put more on the plate, but I held myself back because it wouldn’t have done any good. At least she was eating something. “So, stop looking at my food like you’re going to lecture me.”
“I wasn’t,” I assured half-heartedly.
“Mmhmm.”
I grinned. “I was just thinking about how well your cooking skills have gotten.”
“I’d hope so,” she mused, twirling her fork around some pasta before stabbing a piece of chicken with it. “I’ve come a long way over the years considering my only other options were finding new Pop-Tarts and Healthy Choice meals to try.”
She had people to cook for her, but she never used them. When her mother was alive, she’d cook all the time for the family, but then she became busy with the charities she helped with and the events she’d gone to constantly with Anthony. They did everything for their family, for Adele, but their daughter was on her own more than I liked. It was why I’d stepped in so much, brought Della with me various places, that way she wasn’t always alone with the hired help.
Being the stubborn child that she was, she always insisted on eating premade meals, things she could make easily without anybody else’s help. When Elizabeth passed, her father tried to take up cooking and meal prep, so Della had something to eat that wasn’t loaded with sugar, especially considering Adele had become hyperaware of what she was eating, no thanks to the expectations that came with being a dancer and the way the tabloids came at her when she put on weight from the lack of proper nutrition. It hadn’t mattered that she burnt twice as many calories from her routines, she struggled with her body image because of everything in her life. I’d read that it was common for adolescents to have those challenges, but Della was a special case. She spiraled with the stress of her loss, in how swiftly everything changed for her because of her parents.
“I still have a long way to go considering I nearly burnt down my father’s house trying to prepare Christmas dinner that one year. I’m still afraid to do anything with turkey.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “If it makes you feel better, I can help you this year. Can’t just give up because of one incident.”
My mind went to my conversation with Sophie about her dancing, but the words didn’t feel the same. “You’re right, but do you really want to risk your kitchen getting burnt to a crisp?”
I shrugged. “I have the money to fix it.”
“Very encouraging.”
“I do my best.”
Her phone chirped from somewhere in the kitchen, causing her to look behind her. I frowned when she got up and dug through the purse that she’d draped on the island next to the empty fruit bowl. The sigh escaping her lips made my brows pinch. “Trouble?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Della.”
She walked back over, dropping into her chair with her phone still in hand. “My professor emailed me about an opportunity that she’d brought up months ago. The deadline is this weekend and she needs an answer.”
“What is the opportunity?”
“An art class.”
I waited for her to enlighten me.
She set her phone down. “It’s an art class I’ve been wanting to be part of since sophomore year when the school started offering it. It’s not a regular class, it’s more like an invite-only event that only happens every two years and lasts for a week. They select students based on submissions throughout the year and apparently mine was one of them.”
Pride swept through me. “That’s great, Della. Why do you seem upset by it if you’ve wanted to do it for two years?”
“I just…” She licked her lips, her eyes darting to the phone. “I haven’t been very inspired since Dad passed away. I’m afraid if I go that they’ll be disappointed with what I produce. They bring top artists to evaluate and offer guidance. It’d be embarrassing if they felt they wasted a spot on me.”
“What did I tell you about putting yourself down?”
“You don’t get it, Theo.”
I learned toward her, my food forgotten along with hers. “Then make me.”
She met my gaze. “It’s simple. I don’t feel as though I’m good enough. I mean, my art. I don’t think my art is good enough.”
But that wasn’t what she meant at all. “I know you better than that, Della. Don’t try to bullshit me again.”
She said nothing.
We returned to our food, clearing off our plates in silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but thick. I knew