Page 31 of My Lovely Tragedy
“Did you empty my cupboards?” I ask as I eye his setup.
“As if I could ever do that,” he scoffs. “But seriously, you have a lot of fucking food.”
“I told you, I don’t leave often, which means I must ensure I have my groceries stocked." Brooklyn loads his plate with two pancakes, chocolate, and mounds of fruit, and drowns every inch of it in maple syrup.
“But you have all the fruits and veggies. And this fancy glass jar of… real maple syrup,” he tacks on at the end.
“Yes, but that’s only because I had just bought them a couple of days before I brought you here. And that syrup is pure and organic. Not that terrible artificial corn syrup stuff.”
He snorts. “Well, lucky me. I fuckin’ love fruit.”
“I actually do not,” I tell him truthfully. A small, seemingly insignificant fact about myself.
“Really?” he asks around a mouthful. I frown at his full cheeks even though I feel nothing but elation.
“Yes. It’s… I suppose it’s a texture thing.”
He lifts a thick brow and waves his fork around in the air. “Then why do you even buy it?”
“Because it’s good for you,” I say by way of explanation.
“Well, yeah, but if you don’t like it…”
“We do things all the time we do not like.”
“But eating food you don’t like is just goingwaytoo far, dude. Life’s too short to be doing that shit.” I glance down at my own plate, with a single pancake and a stack of fruit lined across the top. I view it with more disdain than ever before now that Brooklyn’s brought light to it.
“Here, let me.” He takes my plate from in front of me and scrapes off the fruit onto his own before dropping it back in front of me with a clatter.
My chest aches. A dull, radiating throb.
He reaches for the chocolate chips and dumps a scoop on my pancakes, then he adds a handful of granola. As he reaches for the syrup, I swipe it just before he starts pouring.
“I’ve got this part.” He laughs and shrugs, going back to his own plate as I pour a thin line over one quarter of the pancake before cutting into that section.
The first bite is way too sweet. And so is every one after that, but it’s Brooklyn’s creation, so I enjoy every single bite with reverence. Warmth fills me, buzzing in my veins. The pain recedes—and I know it’s only temporary—but I bask in it while it lasts.
Brooklyn eats like he’s starving, shoveling each bite in before he is even finished chewing. Manners are of no thought to him—something I find absolutely fascinating, if not slightly disturbing.
Just as I part my lips, his phone buzzes loudly from inside his pocket. The reminder that the outside world really is out there—that more than justusexists—is painful. Brooklyn nearly jumps out of his skin at the sensation, fork clattering against his plate.
His eyes dart to me before he pulls out the device and swipes his finger across the screen. “Yeah?”
I nearly laugh. Not even a proper hello.
“What?” His eyes dart to me again, and I shift on my stool, gaze locked on the sink, food long forgotten.
“No, of fucking course not. I’m not that stupid.” The voice on the other end gets louder. I hear a muffledstupid, and Brooklyn pushes to his feet, not sparing me a backward glance as he disappears down the hall. I hear theshnickof the bathroom door, and then his voice is muffled, too.
I follow him, feet padding softly across the floor, my body gravitating toward the sound of his voice.
“I wouldn’t risk myself or even the band like that. No, I swear he had no clue who I was before I fucking told him.”
The heat in my chest expands, coils, and burns.
“Just two more days, Ben. That’s all I’m asking.”
My fingers tap restlessly against my thigh.One, two, three, three, two, one.
