“I’m pretty sure that doesn’t matter when the word ‘no’ is involved.”
Brody walks up to me, hovering, breaking into my personal space. I refuse to move and give him the satisfaction that he’s bothering me in such a way. “You’re in a lot of pain. A lot. I saw it in your eyes last week, and I’ve seen it in your beautiful damn eyes every freaking time I’ve called you. I knew you fifteen years ago and Jesus, Journey, you didn’t look so f’ing sad. You’re going through hell, and our siblings are basically planning out their happily ever after. You don’t like people. I get it, but you can’t stop people from liking you. You need a friend.”
His words pierce my chest, pushing me beyond the point of anger and into a realization of pain. “What makes you think I don’t have any friends?”
Brody blinks slowly, and his head tilts to the side. “If you did, that person or people would have said everything I just did, and my words wouldn’t have been jarring enough to make your cheeks pale or that cute lip quiver just one time.
“Don’t break me, Brody. Whatever it is you’re trying to do, just stop.” My voice is so weak, it’s obvious, and I can’t hide how I’m feeling, which makes me crazy.
“You’re already broken,” he says, his eyes close, and his lips unfurl into a grimace. “I’m sorry for saying so.”
I walk away from him and close myself in the bathroom, needing air, needing a minute. With my reflection staring back at me through my oval mirror, I dissect what I’m feeling because it’s so much at once. All I know is, I wish for the pain in my chest to subside. I splash some cold water onto my cheeks and pat my face dry with my magenta and cream-colored decorative hand towel.
When I step out of the bathroom, Brody is breaking up the spaghetti and placing it into the boiling water. He found a saucepan and has the jar ready to pour.
“You’re going to get beard hairs in my food, aren’t you?”
Brody chuckles and tosses the empty box from the spaghetti into the recycling bin. “I tend to it every morning, oil and brush it, it isn’t falling out, okay?”
I make a gagging sound because that’s disgusting. “Mind if I pour the bourbon?” He ignores my insult and moves onto his next best idea.
“I’m not getting drunk with you tonight.”
“Please, I have a tween daughter who shrieks her head off about clothes for an hour each morning before school. I don’t reach the point of a buzz without knowing my consequence,” he tells me.
“One sign of maturity,” I counter. “Amazing.”
“A beard is also a sign of maturity,” he follows.
“Yeah, at fourteen when you hit puberty ...”
“One drink and you can have one chicken patty, then you’re leaving.”
“You were only going to have two, now you’re having three?”
“I got really hungry when I thought I had to stab a robber,” I tell him as I grab the remote and unmute The Kardashians.
4
Brodyand I have been staring at the fourth uneaten chicken patty for the last five minutes. I know I can’t stomach another bite, but at the same time, I know he wants it very badly.
“Truth or drink?” Brody asks while stabbing a chunk of tomato from the remnants of sauce on his plate.
“Too easy.” I grab my glass and take a swig.
Brody takes a minute to look around my apartment, and I can’t tell if he’s trying to find something or if he’s thinking. “Truth or fart?”
For a short moment, I glare at him until I realize he’s taken a second turn at a game I didn’t agree to play. “You don’t get to go again.”
“Fine, it’s your turn,” he tempts me.
I let the thoughts stir around in my head as I stare straight at Brody’s chiseled features. He still has those freckles on his nose. I don’t know why I remember being fascinated by them when I was younger. They’re in a cluster and perfectly centered down the bridge toward his nostrils. And his hair—it’s shaved on the sides; the top is relatively thick for a man in his mid-to-late thirties. He still has natural streaks of caramel blended through his coffee brown hair, which accents his hazel eyes. The jerk is always good looking even with the horrible beard.
“I just made up a new rule,” Brody announces. “If you don’t ask a question within sixty seconds, you forfeit your turn.”
I drop my fork to the plate. “You don’t get to make up new rules in the middle of a game.”
“Fine,” he says, reaching his fork toward the plate between us and stabs the last chicken patty. “This is mine.”
