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I do want to run. To hide. To shove my fingers down my throat and purge this whole fucking night away.
But I don’t move. Can’t.
He’s watching me, his eyes dark and unreadable.
Part of me wants to slap him. Another part wants to drag him into the bathroom and lose control.
“Let’s get out of here.” Brandon throws his napkin onto the table.
“What?”
“You heard me.” He signals Marcus for the check. “Or do you want to keep eating?”
I look at the burger and the response of my stomach comes instantly, bile rising.
“Thought so.”
I can’t breathe. Can’t think. The restaurant walls feel like they’re closing in. If I run now, will he follow?
He pulls out his wallet, throwing cash on the table. “Did you drive here?”
“I took a cab.”
“Come on.” He extends his hand. “I’ll get you home.”
The drive to my place is silent. Dead silent. Brandon grips the wheel so tight his fingers blanch, only relaxing once we reach my apartment complex, and he shifts the gear into park.
The motor keeps humming.
He’s right about the twitching, the control, all of it.
But he’s wrong, too. This isn’t just about punishing myself. It’s about… God, I don’t even know anymore. The lines between guilt and control blur more each day.
I glance at Brandon’s profile, illuminated by the streetlight. His jaw clenches and unclenches. The same tension I saw when he talked about his restaurant. We’re both such messes, aren’t we? Running from our demons, pretending we’re fine.
The burger turns heavy in my stomach. Half eaten. A small victory turned sour by our argument. I managed to keep it down though. That’s something, right?
My phone buzzes. Probably Blake checking in. She always knows, somehow, has this sixth sense about my bad nights. But I can’t deal with her concern right now. Can’t handle anyone else’s emotions when mine are scattered all over the place.
I need… control.
“Thanks for dinner.” I reach for the door handle.
“My pleasure.”
Asshole.
I get out, slam the car door shut with a bang, storm into my building, and jam my finger against the elevator button, fighting against the whirlwind of emotions swirling within me.
The second I’m inside my apartment, I kick off my heels and beeline for the kitchen. Yanking the cabinet doors open, I search, search, search… There. Hidden behind boxes of quinoa and kale chips, my secret stash. Cookies, chips, and all the junk food I pretend not to buy. The family-size bag of chips crinkles as I rip it open.
One handful… Two… Three. The salt burns my tongue.
Not enough.
I grab the cookies and stuff them in my mouth until my cheeks bulge. Crumbs scatter across the counter as I tear into package after package, every single bite settling deep in my stomach, protesting, but I don’t stop because if I do, if I let myself think for even a second?—
The doorbell rings.