Page 27 of Don't Let Me Break
Her lips thin, but she doesn’t answer me, and damn if it doesn’t turn me on.
Her silence, her walls, her aloofness…all of it intrigues me. The way she refuses to even talk to me unless I pry the words out of her. The way she gets nervous and fidgety anytime I’m around. It makes me want to poke the bear even more. Makes me want to peel back the layers she surrounds herself with. Makes me want to continue our conversations no matter how one-sided they feel.
Just like in the ambulance. Just like at the gym.
So damn quiet.
So damn intriguing.
“So you’re not going to hang out with your friends tonight?” I prod.
“SeaBird isn’t exactly my scene.”
“Why not?”
“I dunno. Booze and I aren’t exactly friends, and sometimes the lights are super flashy and…” Her voice trails off as she shrugs, her anxiety tainting the air around us like gasoline, needing only the tiniest of sparks to burn our almost pleasant conversation to the ground.
It doesn’t take a genius to piece together what she’s refusing to say out loud. Alcohol and flashing lights can be triggers for seizures. She’s staying away to protect herself, even when it’s isolating for her.
My stomach dips at the realization. It must be lonely. Dealing with something so inordinately heavy by yourself. However, I doubt she wants my pity. And honestly? She doesn’t have it. We all have our baggage, and we all learn to carry it in different ways. Hers just happens to involve staying away from clubs and alcohol. It wouldn’t be such a big deal if she wasn’t in college. But for now, it’s a bitch and leaves her more isolated than her friends probably realize.
“I’m getting too old to be hungover, so I get it,” I admit. “It’s not really my scene, either. Especially after I just got off work.”
“And figured you’d do a little grocery shopping before heading home?” She tilts her head toward my cart, perusing my groceries. Her eyes widen with surprise.
“There a problem with my food?” I ask.
Realizing she’s been caught snooping, her gaze snaps to mine, and she settles back on her heels. “Nope.”
“You look surprised.”
“No, I…” Her attention drops to my cart again, and she shakes her head.
“Tell me,” I urge.
She lets out a light, embarrassed laugh and glances at the cart another time as if she can’t help it. “No processed food.”
“That’s a problem?”
“No,” she rushes out.
“Then, what is it?”
“I’ve never met a guy who doesn’t survive off ramen noodles, protein shakes, and frozen pizzas.”
“Not all of us have young metabolisms able to bounce back after eating like shit all the time.”
Clutching the tube of dough to her chest, she challenges, “Are you coming after my cookie dough?” Her tone is a little lighter. Less guarded. More carefree than I’ve ever witnessed, at least during our conversations anyway. Probably because she’s relieved at the subject change and how we aren’t tiptoeing around her epilepsy. But what do I know?
Her smile, though. Damn. It’s the first time I’ve seen it. The first time she hasn’t tried to bite my head off or dismiss me at the drop of a hat. But I’m not sure whether or not I like her full attention. Actually, I have a feeling I do like it. Maybe a little too much.
I blink, forcing myself to stop staring at how gorgeous she is. “You think I’d come after your cookie dough?” I shake my head. “Of course not. But if I’m going to eat something sweet, I prefer to put the time and effort into making it worth it.”
“Unfortunately, not all of us have Mama Taylor’s recipe.”
“Maybe I’ll have to steal it from her so you can compare.”
“Hmm,” she hums, holding my gaze as she tucks her long black hair behind her ear. Apparently, the shields are down again.