Page 119 of On the Breakaway

“No more than anyone else.”

I roll out the cookie dough while my brain starts rearranging everything I thought I knew about the last three days.

Tearing off a piece of dough, I hand it to her without thinking. She takes it, chewing slowly, shoulders dropping just a fraction like her body is tired of holding everything in place.

“Yeah,” she mutters as if trying to make it sound like it’s not a big deal, “he’s an asshole. He said some asshole shit, so I’ve just been kind of… stuck in it. It’ll pass.”

“What did he say?” I ask, and whatever edge was in my voice before is gone now, because I just want to understand what bothered her enough to make her disappear.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Chaos.” Her name comes out as less of a demand and more of a warning because I’ve seen this pattern with her before, shutting down when she should be opening up.

“One of his teammates saw us at the club,” she says, not looking at me, “you and I dancing, and he… didn’t like it.”

I stop completely, shoulders tensing.

Everything from the last few days reframes itself. None of her silence has been to distance herself from me. It’s all been to distance herself from whatever wounds that encounter reopened.

“What did he say?” I ask, and there’s nothing left in my voice except control I’m barely holding onto.

“It really doesn’t matter,” she repeats, her voice cracking.

The hell it doesn’t.

I watch her closely, even while she avoids meeting my eyes. Then, I step away from the counter before I even realize I’m moving, circling around the island until I’m in front of her. Screw the distance she keeps trying to put between us.

“Did you text me before or after you saw him?”

She hesitates, and I already know.

“After,” she admits.

Of course, it was after. She got hit with her history and then disappeared to avoid having to deal with any of it. I don’t want her to hide away, though.

I step closer, my legs bracketing hers where she’s sitting on the stool. She freezes as if she’s bracing for impact.

“If you don’t want me,” I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I expect, “if you don’t like me, if I’m just some mistake you’re trying to avoid repeating, then fine, I can learn to live with that. I can do whatever you want me to do, but baby, please, I need you to tell me what happened.”

Her eyes flick up to mine, and for the first time tonight, she doesn’t have a defense ready.

“I need to understand,” I say, quieter now, “why you keep shutting people out like it’s safer to be alone than to let someone stay. Please just stop sitting here insisting you’re fine when you’re not.”

Her face cracks as she lets out a breath. I reach up, tucking a stray piece of her hair behind her ear like I’ve been doing it my whole life, even though this is still new and messy and undefined.

“It’s not the sob story you think it is.”

“I don’t care about what kind of story it is. I just care that it’s yours.”

“I’ve never really talked about it.”

“Then maybe it’s time you do.”

24

Avery

The soup is fucking delicious.