“Sad?” His brows shoot up. “What are you sad about?”
“I don’t know.”
He scoffs. “You don’t know.” The fork clatters against the plate. “Hire a therapist. We have insurance.”
“Maybe, but it’s more than—”
“What more do you want from me?” He leans back in his chair, arms crossing as his expression hardens to gravel. “What’s your plan? Huh? You work at my restaurant. Sleep under my roof. I cook, pay the bills, indulge your half-assed ideas about writing. What else can I do?”
I hate that his words ring true.
I’ve become so…codependent. Some days, I don’t know where he ends and I begin.
And that terrifies me.
I twist my napkin between my hands, trembling through my next words. “I feel lost. I’m twenty-one, and I have no idea what I’m doing with my life. I don’t want to spend the next decade pulling double shifts at a diner.”
“Unbelievable.” He pushes back from the table so hard his chair nearly tips. Running both hands through his hair, he paces, exhaling sharp, ragged breaths. “Do you even hear yourself? Do you realize how selfish you sound? It’s always been me and you. I take care of you. I love you. I want to fucking marry you.”
“I know, I just…” I stand with him, my lips trembling, sluiced in salty tears. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do. I feel like we’re headed toward a dead end, and I can’t see a way out.”
“So your solution is to break up with me?”
“I said temporary. Just some space to clear our heads, think about what we really want—”
“Whatyoureally want.”
I swallow. “I guess.”
“Fuck.” He kicks the chair, launching it halfway across the room.
I flinch back. “Alex, please—”
“Please what?” He whirls around, his face flushed and splotchy. “I. Do. Everything. For. You.” Each word is a hot knife, punctuated by the quick jab of his finger. “I’ve built my life around you. Where are you going to work? Where are you going to sleep?”
“I can stay with Tag for a few days.”
“Tag,” he repeats, his tongue pressing against his cheek. “Your brother, the aimless dreamer who thinks strumming his guitar and singing pretty songs will pay the bills. Must be genetic.”
Heat trails up my chest, my neck, my ears. “That’s not fair.”
“Fair?” He lets out a bitter laugh. “You’re the one blindsiding me with this.”
“I’m trying. I am. I’m trying to figure out what’s best for both of us.”
“Don’t play the martyr.”
“I’m not. I’m—”
“Christ.”
My voice cracks. “Alex, you—”
“Just calm down, my God.”
“Stop saying that!” The words wrench from my throat, splitting at the seams. “I am calm. I’malwayscalm.”
I’m not.
