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His jaw ticks. “This isn’t about me.”
“It’s never about you, is it?” I throw the towel in the basket. “Just like it wasn’t about you when you offered this deal. No, you were just trying to help poor, pathetic Naomi escape her family.”
“Okay, let’s talk about it.” He inches closer, and I flatten myself against the stupid, unyielding wall. “Let’s talk about how you’re breaking your end right now.”
“I didn’t break anything.”
His eyes bore into mine. “Pretty sure ‘pretending to be functional’ was part of the agreement. Someone might think I don’t cherish you enough when you have to puke your guts out. So, this”—he gestures to the bathroom stall—”isn’t functional.”
“Neither is drinking yourself stupid at your father’s memorial.”
He’s so close that I can smell his cologne mixed with whiskey. “At least I’m not hiding my demons.”
“Oh, no. You run from them. You laugh and make jokes about yourself instead of crying because somewhere along the way, you taught yourself to invalidate your feelings so it wouldn’t hurt so bad. So, fuck you.”
“Want to try?” His fingers ghost over my cheek. “I’m all for it.”
I grab his wrist, but I can’t decide if I want to push him away or pull him closer. “Back off.”
“Like you backed off about the event today? About the speech? About alcohol?”
“That’s—”
“You get to push and prod.” His thumb strokes my cheek. “But the moment someone tries to help you, you shut them out.”
You want to play Milton. Let’s play. “When’s the last time you cooked anything? Hell, when was the last time you even stepped foot in your restaurant? The one which is sitting empty, waiting.”
“You want honesty, cupcake? I’m fucked up. Haven’t cooked in months. Can’t even look at my restaurant without wanting to put my fist through a wall.” His thumb brushes my bottom lip. “Your turn.”
It would be so easy to kiss him, to lose myself in the heat of his body and forget everything else. To let him consume me until there’s nothing left but emptiness.
But that’s not what this is. That’s not what we are.
“My turn?” I bat his hand away. “Here’s honesty. You’re using me to avoid dealing with your problems, just like I’m using you to avoid mine. That’s our deal. Nothing more.”
The warmth from his voice drains with each syllable. “Right. Just a deal.”
I use this chance to move past him, straight to the door, grabbing the handle. “Brandon?”
“Yeah?” His eyes are anchored to the ground
“Don’t do this again.” My fingers tighten. “Don’t follow me into bathrooms.”
“My mistake. Next time, I’ll just let you choke on your own vomit.”
At least then, I’m getting rid of this all. I yank the bathroom door open and storm out.
I hate him.
This beautiful disaster of a man.
FIVE
BRANDON
My fingers drum against the pristine white tablecloth at Elliot’s as the waiter hovers nearby, probably wondering, like me, if I’m being stood up.
Again.

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