Page 67 of Doughn't Let Me Go

Maybe even a drink.

I mean, I did turn twenty-one today—it’d be silly not to have at least one drink on my twenty-first birthday, right?

Taking a deep breath and squaring my shoulders, I glide into the kitchen as cheerily as I can.

“Good morning,” I say to him with the brightest smile I can muster.

Only my pasted-on smile is pointless. He’s not even looking my way. His face is buried in his phone.

I try not to be disappointed when I see he’s dressed for leaving the house today.

Disappointed? You should be thrilled. You won’t have to run and hide all day.

“Hmm.” It’s a grunt, not a greeting.

Great. He’s in a pissy mood.

“How’d you sleep?”

“Like shit.” He lets his phone clatter loudly to the counter and takes a sip of his coffee. “Pure fucking shit.”

“Oh.”

I don’t know what else to say. “Sorry” sounds stupid, and if he’s in this mood, I don’t want to try to engage him in chitchat.

Instead, I busy myself with making a cup of coffee. Full to the tippy top, one scoop of sugar—that’s it.

I didn’t always drink my coffee like this. I used to indulge in the fancy flavored creamers, but somewhere along the way, I told myself I didn’t need to be spending extra money on something that’s not necessary. So, I quit. A bag of sugar was a much better investment, could last me way longer than those creamers ever did.

I still miss them.

I lean against the counter, staring at him, taking my first drink.

It’s bitter.

Like him.

“Gracing me with your presence this morning?”

I gulp.

I was hoping he hadn’t noticed, but it’s obvious he has.

I haven’t stayed for coffee since Wednesday.

It’s not that I don’t enjoy his company, because I do.

But that’s precisely the problem. Ienjoyhis company.

Too much.

“I was planning to,” I say softly.

“Why? Need something?”

His hostility burns through me, and I straighten my shoulders. I don’t care if I like him or not—he won’t treat me like his punching bag just because he’s in a mood.

“You’re being a dick, Porter.”

---