Makes the sound again.
Fuck.
I pick up my own spoon and take a bite.
"Oh, shit." My eyes go wide.
"See!" She reaches over and slaps the back of my hand. "It's fucking incredible!"
She's grinning with zero composure remaining, and her spoon is already going back in.
It's excellent.
This night needs to end immediately.
***
"How was it?"
Rosalie walks into the apartment like she lives here, which she doesn't, but has never let stop her. I let the door close behind me and head for the kitchen, still rubbing sleep from my eyes.
"Well, good morning to you too."
She sets her belongings on the counter. I've never seriously contemplated throwing someone from the thirty-second floor of this building, but I'm not ruling it out.
I pull the coffee down from the cabinet. "It's six in the morning, Rose. I haven't even had coffee."
"I couldn't wait. You didn't answer my texts last night."
Because I was having an existential crisis.And jerking off three times.
"I was out," I say.
"I'm aware you were out. I helped plan you beingout. But after what I walked in on yesterday." She folds her hands on the counter. "Between the pictures from the club and last night circulating the internet—"
"I know what it looks like."
"You're not that good of an actor, little brother."
I set the coffee going and say nothing.
She watches me with the expression she's had since I was a teenager and lying badly about where I'd been. She has never once been fooled by me. Not once in my entire life.
"How was it, Michael?" she asks again. Quieter this time.
I lean against the counter and look at the brewing coffee. "Complicated."
"More or less than you expected?"
"More."
She puts her hands on her hips. "Are you going to tell me what actually happened or keep giving me one-word answers? You talk to me about everything. Why are you being so evasive?"
I push my hands through my hair and press my fingers into my brow, trying to head off the migraine I can already feel building.
I don't think I've ever been in a funk quite like this one. Sleep evades me. Working out has become less enjoyment and more an outlet for frustration I can't articulate. My nights out with friends have turned into nights in, pacing my apartment, vibrating with pure rage, until I end up in my workout room with boxing gloves on, punching the bag until my knuckles beg me to stop.
The last thing I want to do is talk about it.
