Page 21 of Fight Or Flight

Yeah, right.

I narrow my eyes.

“No one prefers a pull-out,” I argue.

“You calling me a liar?” he questions, raising an eyebrow.

I think about it for a second. There’s no way he can possibly prefer to sleep on that thing, I just don’t understand why he’d bother to lie about it.

“Yes,” I admit.

He laughs, and that startles me for a moment. He’s got a great laugh and for some reason it makes me want to smile, so I do. I friggin smile. I didn’t think it was a possible to do that when you’re hurting so much, but here I am.

“Well, at least you’re honest,” he says.

“Yeah, you should try it sometime,” I tease. He seems to consider my words for a moment. Desperate to keep him talking, I find the courage to press him. “Admit you hate the pull-out.”

He looks at me.

Those blue eyes so damn consuming.

“Fine, you want honesty, I’ll give you honesty. I haven’t said much to you because I don’t know what to say.”

Now, I wasn’t expecting that. I try to mask the confusion on my face, but when he sighs, I realize I’m a horrible actress.

“The truth is, you are a hurricane, Brooklyn, but not in the way you think.”

I’m not sure what that means, and I don’t think I want to know either.

“We need Oreos for this conversation,” he mutters.

Taking a step closer to me, he reaches over me to open the cabinet behind me, taking a package of cookies from the shelf. He turns his head and those blue eyes connect with mine.

Damn.

“Can you grab the milk while I get us some glasses?” he asks.

I’m not really sure what’s happening or how we got to eating cookies and drinking milk in the middle of the night, but I go with the flow and nod. I make my way to the fridge and I hesitate for a second as my mom’s voice sounds in my head, reminding me it’s not polite to open someone else’s refrigerator.

I don’t know that I will ever get used to thinking of this place as my home.

I don’t know that I even want to.

Why does life have to be so hard?

“Brook, the carton of milk doesn’t have legs. You have to pull the door open,” Eric says. I glance over my shoulder at him. He’s already seated at the breakfast nook with the cookies and two empty glasses.

I turn back to the fridge and open it. My eyes instantly widen because the thing is fully stocked—like overcapacity stocked. I move a couple of things around and grab the milk. Setting the plastic gallon on top of the granite countertop, I slide onto the stool beside Eric. He pours me a glass of milk, then drops three Oreos in the glass.

“Are we drinking cookies or eating them?” I question.

“You’ve never eaten them like this before?”

I shake my head and he hands me a spoon.

“Brooklyn, this is the only way to eat an Oreo.”

I take the spoon from him, but I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to do with it. Who the hell eats cookies with a spoon? Sensing I’m waiting for some kind of instruction, he grabs his spoon and pushes the Oreos all the way to the bottom of the glass. Then he takes a big gulp of milk, draining half the glass. He looks at me and tips his chin toward the glass in front of me.

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