Page 65 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

That danger sign edges into my thoughts again. Now it’s got flashing lights and a siren alert.

I should go.

Instead, I tug the garment over my head, knotting it at my hip. Instantly, I’m enveloped in the clean, warm smell of him.

As he props the door of the fridge open and gathers ingredients, I peer over his shoulder.

“You’re one of those meal prep nutjobs, aren’t you?” I say.

“Are you seriously judging my fridge right now?”

“I’m not judging. That’s just a lot of chicken,” I say, noting his stacks of glass takeout containers. “And… rice?”

“Couscous,” he says.

“Fancy.”

He slaps a puffy loaf of golden-crusted bread on a cutting board and grabs a knife from the butcher block, closing the door with his hip.

“It was on sale.”

I settle onto one of the modern barstools. “I didn’t take you for the kind of guy who appreciates a bargain.”

“You mean you couldn’t tell I buy this beer in bulk at Costco?” he grins. “Six figures worth of student loans will really change your outlook on life, I guess.”

At first, I laugh like he’s joking. Then I realize… he’s not joking.

I know it’s not really that unusual. I’ve got friends who would sell their left kidney to get out from under student debt. I was more fortunate than most; I scraped by, sure, but mostly on scholarships and grants. Still, I’m a few years away from calling it even. I think maybe I’m most surprised to realize that he’s one of us. Are you really a millennial if you don’t have a truckload of debt from getting a basic education?

I tip the bottle to my mouth. “I’m gonna be honest, I pegged you for a trust fund baby.”

He registers my surprise with a shrug, like this happens all the time.

“Family fuckup, remember? I might be the only trust fund baby you know who worked his way through law school as a bartender, Ryde driver, late-night personal trainer, and line cook at a torta sandwich shop.”

He ticks the items off on one hand before expertly slicing into a tomato.

“That’s quite the resume,” I say. “No exotic dancing? That’s really the classic way to work oneself through college.”

“Turns out I’m allergic to body glitter. Such a shame, too, considering my pelvic thrust is so on point,” he jokes.

At least, I think he’s joking. I’m too busy trying to avoid the way I’m imagining him as an exotic dancer to question it.

“So why come back? You made it in spite of your family. Seems like you wouldn’t want to jump right back into bed with them.”

“Interesting choice of words,” he says.

“Sorry. Too personal?” I ask, wrinkling my nose.

“We can get personal,” he says. “Getting cut off was maybe one of the best things that ever happened to me. Otherwise, what useless skills would I have to impress you with?”

He quickly constructs a sandwich that looks like it should be a taco, with a three-cheese blend, leftover carnitas, and some sort of greenish sauce he whisks in a small bowl. My mouth is literally watering by the time he slides the plate in front of me.

I gather up the sandwich with both hands. “Who says I’m impressed?”

He watches me with an expectantly cocky expression as I take the first messy bite. And god, it’s good. I do my best to keep my eyes from lolling closed in ecstasy, but I can tell from the way he smirks that I failed. Spicy-delicious mystery sauce dribbles down my hand.

“Okay,” I admit around another mouthful. “Maybe a little impressed.”

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