He casually handed me a strawberry cake, saying, "Anya brought you a dessert. Why don't you try it?"
I glanced at the cake—it looked cheap, the strawberries bruised and sad-looking. Without a second thought, I threw it in the trash.
"Astrid! What's your problem? That was a gift from Anya! How can you be so rude?" he snapped.
"It's okay, Cedric," Anya chimed in, linking her arm with his. "Maybe she just doesn't like strawberry." Her tone was sweet, but the look she gave me wasn't.
I stared at them, feeling empty inside. I met my husband's eyes, and I said, "Cedric, I'm allergic to strawberries."
The anger on his face faded, replaced by a flash of realization. As guilt must have crept inside him, he looked away.
"Astrid…" he started, but he didn't seem to know how to apologize.
"It's my fault," Anya jumped in, her eyes filling with tears. "Astrid, I just wanted to bring you something nice. Please don't blame Cedric."
"No, Anya, don't cry. This isn't your fault," Cedric quickly said, reaching to wipe Anya's tears away.
I'd had enough of the damn act.
Turning away, I headed to my room, saying, "It's late. I'm going to bed. You two can see yourselves out."