Page 63 of Breaking the Rules
We change. Grow up. Get smarter.
Go through shit that scars us.
"I thought you were useless," I say.
"Terrible."
"So you're really asking for a lesson?"
His chuckle is soft, but it still feels good.
I want him close.
Not in a sexual way.
Not even in a platonic way.
I mean, I do want that.
But I also want him here.
I want someone who will scare off all the Vinnies in the world.
I hate needing that.
But I do.
"Em, are you sure you're okay?" he asks.
No. I'm falling back into those thoughts. They're always around the corner, waiting to pounce. I need to push them aside. To focus on this. "If you're here for a lesson, I'm putting you to work."
"I'm good with my hands."
I try to laugh at the joke, but I don't get quite there. "Here." I set the knife on the cutting board. Press my palms together to steady them. "Butterfly the chicken."
He stares at me like I'm crazy.
"Cut it in half lengthwise." I demonstrate the gesture. "When you unfold it, it has the shape of a butterfly."
"All right." His chuckle gets a little louder.
"Try it." I move to the sink, run the water until it's warm, wash my hands.
Hunter presses two fingers against the chicken breast then slides the knife through it.
He unfolds the chicken on the cutting board.
"Huh." He tilts his head to one side like he's trying to find the right angle. "I guess, if you use your imagination."
"Which you should have. As an artist."
"Don't really think of myself as an artist."
"It's in the job title."
"Still." He turns back to me.
I turn back to the sink. Pretend I'm still washing my hands. "How do you think of yourself?"
