Page 22 of My Lovely Tragedy
I nearly laugh at his forestalling. “Because no one does.”The sharpest truth to ever spill from between my lips.
I would do anything for you.
Brooklyn, the smart deviant he is, catches the verity in my tone instantly. His eyes soften, body language relaxing and opening right before my eyes, like a flower in bloom come spring.
So lovely.
“I need to go home in a couple of days.”
I nod, accepting his terms for what they are—an expiration date.
“And when cell service comes back, I need to call my family and let them know I’m okay.”
“Of course,” I concede. I can give him that if he will give me a few extra days.
I’ll give you anything, darling boy. Just as long as you stay.
“And…”
I lift a brow, waiting for more conditions. More terms. Anything to make him happy. Or, at the very least, content.
“And you have to cook.”
A laugh bubbles in my chest before bursting out in the form of joyous, rapacious delight. Brooklyn follows suit, and soon, the woodland fills with the sound of our newfound parallel.
* * *
“What’s on the menu tonight?”Brooklyn asks as he settles on a stool in front of the counter. A steaming mug of tea takes residence in his hand, the steam curling up toward his face in thick, translucent ribbons.
“Eggplant parmesan with roasted vegetables,” I respond as I finish washing my hands. Grabbing the small towel, I dry them as I turn around, catching the curl of his upper lip before he notices me watching and morphs it into a much less discernible portrayal of disgust.
I chuckle lightly, shaking my head in amusement. “Something the matter?” I tease, eyebrows lifting in acknowledgment.
Brooklyn shakes his head before dipping down and busying his mouth by taking a drink. I wait long moments as he procrastinates.
His gaze burns a hole into my counter as the silence stretches. His left eye twitches at the corner, index finger scraping alongside the rim of the teacup.
Any moment now.
“It’s just—that sounds weird,” he finally says.
“Have you ever tried it?” I ask, not taking offense in the slightest.
“Well, no. But eggplant?” His brow arcs, forehead creasing. The wrinkle is back.
I chuckle. “Yes. It can seem off-putting, especially if a palate is as unrefined as yours. But nevertheless, you never know unless you try, as the saying goes.” I pull out the vegetables from the fridge to start cleaning them.
Brooklyn gives an undignified snort before leaning back, making the stool creak from the shift in weight. “Yeah, I guess that could be said about me being here, too.” His voice has softened, taking on a tone of wariness. Anxiety.
“Why are you here?” I ask the question he doesn’t want to answer. Better to ignore than face what’s questionable, I suppose.
It fills the air, poised with an unassuming threat—and it tastes wonderful.
“Well, in case you forgot in your old age, I was drunk off my ass, andyoubrought me here.” A flippant remark, but it’s a true manifestation of his vulnerability.
“Just how old do you think I am?” I flick my eyes up between my lashes, over the rim of my glasses.
“I don’t know. Like forty?”
