“Listen, Leo?—”
He shakes his head, cutting me off. “I won’t touch your food again. I can promise you that.”
Great. I bet if I walk by his trash tomorrow, all the to-go containers Easton will be dropping off this afternoon will be in there, completely full to the brim.
Fuck, I don’t have the energy for this. He starts walking back up the street, and I decide it’s better for everyone if I just go inside. I can’t fuck up anything else if I bury myself in sixteen blankets and sleep the rest of the day away.
FIVE
LEO
Easton offers me a beer,but I shake my head, stirring my fork around the bowl of chicken and dumplings. It’s not as good as it usually is, but Easton said that the guy who cooks the food was interrupted by all their calls last night, so I’m not going to complain.
Not to mention, it’s a pile of free food and probably my favorite dish of all time. I’m starting to feel spoiled, but I’m also feeling guilty because I know not all of this was for me.
Easton had handed over the stack of containers and said, “Here. North’s chicken and dumplings.”
It probably isn’t fair that Easton swiped food from his best friend, but he’s likely trying to make up for North yelling at me after I ate that fucking spaghetti.
Or carbonara—as he’d shouted at me. Like it fucking matters. It’spasta. And clearly, he’s still pissed about it with the way he’d gone off this morning when I saw him standing in his front yard.
I’d been on my morning walk and hadn’t expected to see him out. I assumed, just like my brother, North went fully unconscious for almost an entire day to sleep off a chaotic shift.But there he was, standing in all his half-clothed glory with his messy, dark hair and tattoos scattered across his arm and chest, looking hotter than I ever want to admit.
It didn’t help my mood that he was in the street fighting with who I had to assume was his girlfriend, and that obviously put him in a pissy mood. And granted, it’s been a while since I’ve been with someone, but I recall with a little too much clarity how fighting with Liam always made me feel.
So when he snapped at me, I didn’t engage. I turned and finished my walk around the other side of the neighborhood and felt better for it.
Though Iamstill irritated about the whole thing because how the fuck was I supposed to know the food belonged to someone else. Easton heated it up and shoved it into my hands. It’s not like I rummaged through their fridge and stole someone’s lunch.
“Are you going to be in a mood all evening?” Easton asks.
I glance up at him, and instead of answering, I say, “I didn’t know North had a girlfriend.”
His brows lift, and he chokes on his swallow of beer. “Uh. He doesn’t. He’s not a relationship kind of guy.”
I didn’t get a good look at the woman who was storming off in her car, but from the way she’d peeled out, it was obvious she was furious at him. I wonder if maybe that’s why she left so angry. Maybe she told him how she felt, and he dismissed her. That seems like a very North thing to do to someone.
“Is that why you’re in a mood? Because of North?”
I stiffen, then set my bowl on the little table between us. “I don’t want you to bring me his food anymore. It’s obvious he hates it, and I’m done getting yelled at.”
Easton sighs. “He doesn’t hate it. Trust me. He’s the one who m?—”
“Don’t defend him,” I snap, cutting him off. “You’ve seen the way he gets with me,” I insist. “Besides, I don’t need his leftovers, okay? I can take care of myself.”
Easton rolls his eyes, takes a long swig of his beer, then reaches over and snags the bowl from the table to finish off what I’m not going to eat. I don’t really mind. I’m not that hungry, and Teddy helped me stock my kitchen with stuff that shouldn’t expire so quickly.
“Did you get any work on your book done this week?” he asks, his cheeks bulging with his bite.
I know he’s not asking to be cruel. He knows the struggle I have with making even a handful of sentences. I used to be able to write tens of thousands of words a week if I was really on a roll.
Now, I’m lucky to get five hundred.
“I did a little. I’m not sure there’s a point anymore, you know? I’m thinking about giving up.”
“Leo—”
“I’m not being self-deprecating. It’s harder now. And I don’t just mean the writing parts. I remember what it was like to be in love, but my scrambled brain makes it really hard to tap into those feelings. Everything I write comes across…” I search for the word, but I can’t find it. It’s not fake, but it also doesn’t seem very realistic. “Anyway, I just don’t know that I’m capable anymore. I might have been an okay writer before, but now I think I might suck.”
