Page 29 of My Lovely Tragedy
I swallow greedily, nearly groaning at the relief. After a few swallows, Brooklyn pulls the cup away, then leans across me to place it on the coffee table. I inhale sharply as his—my—sweatshirt grazes the tip of my nose.
It smells of heat. Of cinnamon and spice. It’s not entirely discernable, but that small mixture intermingling with whatI knowI smell like makes it stand out all the more.
He pulls back quickly, taking direct access to his scent with him, but it lingers in my nostrils, drugging and heady.
Brooklyn rests back on his heels, hands tugging at the loose material stretched across his thighs. I feel the absence of his touch like a phantom limb. “Are you okay?”
My mouth is still parched, forcing me to swallow two more times before I can answer. “Yes. Thank you.”
He stares at me, incredulous. “Thank you?”
“Yes. For helping me.”
“Well, what the fuck else was I supposed to do? Just leave you passed out on the floor with the front door open and blowing snow inside?” His words lure me to look over my shoulder. The door is very much not open, but the overhead light gleams in the puddles left in place of the snow I tracked in.
“I was going to clean it up, but I didn’t want to leave you alone.”
“That’s perfectly?—”
“That scared the shit out of me, dude. What happened? W-why did that happen?”
I fill my lungs with air and brush my curls away from my face. The wire frames of my glasses blur into my peripheral, and I take them with a shaking hand and a grateful smile.
After they’re back in place, I say, “I think low blood sugar. I haven’t eaten in a while.”
“You passed out because you haven’t eaten,” Brooklyn replies dryly. His tone suggests he doesn’t believe me.
My lips purse slightly. “I’m not sure. I wasn’t feeling well on the walk back, so it could have been anything.”
He huffs out a breath and runs his hand through his tangled hair—only serving to knot it further. When he pulls his hand away, a few strands still cling to his fingers. “Well, we should probably get you some food. Or… or juice? Are you diabetic? Benji’s niece is type one, and he said that when her sugars get low?—”
I place my hand against Brooklyn’s forearm, causing him to stop mid-sentence. “I’m not diabetic, but that’s an astute observation. Really, I am fine. It was only a fluke situation. I appreciate you helping me.” The material of my sweater is soft beneath my bare fingers. I flex, feeling the width of his forearm.
Brooklyn spreads his fingers over his thigh, then sighs, visibly pulling away. I refuse to let out my own disappointed exhale as I push myself to my feet. The room spins for a moment, and Brooklyn jumps to his feet, ready to catch me.
I hold my hand out, stopping him.Refusingto let him touch me. Because if he touches me again, I think I’ll lose my mind.
“I’m all right. Thank you.” The words come out a little harsher than I meant for them to, but if Brooklyn takes offense, he doesn’t show it.
“You should still eat something,” he says as I make my way toward the kitchen but not into it. I start picking up my discarded winter clothes to put them in their rightful places. Brooklyn stands off to the side, arms crossed. Outwardly disapproving.
“You don’t take care of yourself, do you?”
I hum non-committedly. “Enough to stay alive.”
“Well, that rings true for literally every person alive, smartass.” His insolence amuses me, and I feel myself smiling as I hang my coat up, then grab a towel out of the hall closet to soak up the water before it damages the floors.
“Brooklyn.” I turn to face him. He straightens his stance, eyes searching out mine. Gritting my teeth, I meet his gaze. “You do not have to worry about me.”
“I don’t,” he counters without a moment of thought. The corner of my mouth twitches.
“Good.”
* * *
“Would you let me help you?”
“No,” I reply as I fold the dry ingredients into the wet.
