Page 52 of Don't Let Me Break

“Sounds like a big deal. Do you like it?”

“Used to,” I mutter, scanning the pages of letters, unable to string a single syllable together.

“Not anymore?” he probes.

“It’s complicated.”

“Well, yeah. It’s aspartame metabolizing in the body. It’s supposed to be complicated.”

I bite back my snort and glance at him again, refusing to give him my full attention no matter how impossible it is. “I meant why I don’t enjoy it as much as I used to. Now, do you mind?” I motion to my textbook again.

“Of course not.”

I suck my lips between my teeth, attempting to concentrate. It feels useless when I can sense him staring at me.

“I’m trying to study,” I remind him.

“And?”

“And it’s difficult when you’re staring at me.”

With a smart-ass grin, he shovels another bite into his mouth and reaches for the remote. The television hanging above the mantle flares to life as Mack balances his food on his lap, searching for something to watch.

“You said we needed a mind-numbing hockey game, didn’t you?” he confirms.

“Huh?” I look at him again.

“When you mentioned us hanging out. You said you wanted a fireplace, your laptop––or textbook since it’s currently what you’re using to study––and a hockey game on the TV. Right?”

“Seriously?”

“I only want to make sure I don’t miss anything.”

“Well, I mean, I could’ve used some of your mom’s famous cookies.”

He laughs. “I’ll keep it in mind for next time.”

Finding a Ranger’s game, Mack tosses the remote onto the cushion and eats his pot pie, the scent driving me crazy until I can’t take it anymore.

I slap my textbook closed and pick up the extra plate of food Mack dished up for me.

With a smirk, he watches me but doesn’t comment.

“How’d you know I’d give in?” I finally ask, digging my fork into the flakey crust. The steam swirls in the air as I bring it to my lips, blowing softly while Mack stares at my mouth but stays quiet.

“Hmm?” I press, taking the bite. It’s good. Really good. Probably the best damn bite of chicken pot pie I’ve ever experienced. Not that I have a lot to compare it with. Other than the Marie Calendar’s single servings my mom used to buy when I was little, this is my first chicken pot pie experience, but it definitely won’t be my last.

“How is it?” he prods.

My mouth quirks up. “Not too shabby. But you never answered me. How’d you know I’d give in and want some?”

He laughs again and takes another bite of chicken and pie crust. “Give the girl the food despite her protests. It’s basically rule number one when becoming friends with a girl.”

“Ah, so there’s a class for this kind of thing?” I quip.

“Maybe.”

“What else does this class teach?”

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