Page 63 of Devilry

He looks up at me and I immediately notice my mistake. I hold the plate out for him “Please take it.”

He adheres to my request and places it in front of him. “Are you going to talk to me, or just sit in silence while I continue to put my foot in my mouth?”

“I’m not mad at you,” he admits.

“But you are mad?”

Looking at me thoughtfully, it takes him a few beats to respond. As expected, he gives me the more adult response to our situation. Taking responsibility and exercising maturity. “You were right. I was projecting. And until I can process how not to do that, let’s just eat.”

I lower my head to avert my gaze, feeling shame at the hands of his poise and control. This is too new and not serious enough for differences to come into play, yet I seem to have brought every single one of his insecurities between us without even trying.

“So, how’s your mom?” he asks, catching me off guard.

I give him a tight smile, acknowledging his need to move on from what just happened, but not appreciating it all the same. I’m not afraid of confrontation, but I’m not going to push him if he isn’t ready. And maybe this is just real life telling us to quit while we’re ahead.

“She’s really good,” I divulge, not wanting to ruin the rest of our time together. “She was discharged from the hospital just under a week after surgery and her rehab started straight after that. My sister’s boyfriend and I decked out the house with some extra hand rails here and there to help her move about.” I continue talking as I watch him plate himself some more of the salad. “Thankfully, he and my sister live close by, so I felt less hopeless about leaving to come back here.”

“Are you the oldest?”

Wanting him to feel as comfortable as possible, but paranoid my answers will make him uneasy, I keep my answers as light, fun, and superficial as possible. “Yeah. There isn’t much of an age gap between Megs and me, so people often confused us for fraternal twins.”

“You guys sound close,” he observes in between bites.

“As annoying as she is, we are ridiculously close.”

“I think I would’ve liked having a sibling.” He flicks his gaze up at me, an apology shining in his deep green eyes.

Even though his childhood sounds like hell, it’s still a part of him. It can’t be magically erased, or disregarded like it didn’t shape him into the man he is today, and I shouldn’t expect him to hide his thoughts because I may become unhinged like a madman.

Anybody can see he has the most honest and pure heart to ever exist, and to be reduced to a label by your own parents is anything but fair. And if I focus on the way they mistreated him, I’m going to miss out on the story that’s written between the lines.

“You don’t have to censor yourself on my account,” I tell him, even though I had planned to do the same thing. “I’ll listen to anything you have to say.”

His body rises and falls in relief, and I feel the tension sliding off and away from both of us. Our waitress arrives with both servings of steak and the smell of the meat mixed with the portobello sauce sends my stomach into a frenzy.

“This smells amazing,” Elijah compliments, echoing my own thoughts.

His focus is on the mouth-watering meal, while I wait, watching, wanting to see his face when he takes the first bite.

His eyes close upon contact and an erection inducing moan sounds from the back of his throat. “God, you really weren’t kidding. This is fucking life changing.”

Pleased with myself, I dig into my own plate, while he continues to murmur sweet nothings after every mouthful.

“If I lived this close, I would be here every day ordering this,” he states. “We absolutely have to come back here.”

A rose-colored flush works its way up his neck, passes his ears, and covers his face. I don’t acknowledge that it may have been a slip, but rather hope to God it wasn’t. “We definitely should. Maybe when you’re out exploring the city, we can squeeze it in.” My reaction seems to normalize our exchange, slowly shifting the night back to its original mood. “There’s some really good places to eat around here, perfect for someone who is too lazy to cook.”

“So, you’re not a good cook?” he queries.

“I’m not good or bad. I can follow a recipe like it’s nobody’s business, but I don’t actually like doing it. It’s depressing cooking for one.”

“And eating alone isn’t?”

“It seems like that should faze me, but it doesn’t. Eating is enjoyable, but putting in all that effort without having someone to show it off to?” I shake my head. “I’m not built for that.” Setting my fork down, I take a quick swig of my beer. “What about you? Do you cook?”

“Does pasta and ready bought sauce count?”

“Look on the bright side, at least you can keep yourself alive.”

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