Page 45 of On the Breakaway

Her eyes narrow at the glass as if I might’ve poisoned it.

“You’re usually nicer than this,” she mutters.

“And you’re usually more sober than this.” I lean one arm against the bar.

She drinks half the water before leaning into my space again.

I move back.

She follows.

Jesus fucking Christ.

After our encounter behind the bar, I’d managed to convince myself that the way my body tensed around her was alcohol fueled. But I’m stone cold sober, and wound as tight a fucking spring. Every time she slides into my space, I coil tighter.

Up close, her curls are messier than usual, all bright red tangles falling across flushed cheeks and smudged eyeliner. There’s something disarming about seeing her like this. Avery is normally sharp, even when she’s being difficult.

Tonight, all of that armor feels cracked open.

“Are you here alone?” I ask carefully.

Her expression flickers before she shrugs one shoulder. “Not originally.”

“Your friends ditched you?” I’ve met most of the soccer team. They don’t seem like the type to abandon someone who’s this drunk.

“No. They went home to people who love them.”

The words catch me off guard. There’s enough bitterness in them that I wonder how much of tonight has nothing to do with tequila at all. Before I can respond, she reaches for one of the fries the bartender dropped between us and points it vaguely in my direction.

“You know what your problem is?”

“I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”

“You’re too…” She squints at me hard. “Good looking.”

I choke on absolutely nothing.

She nods like she’s made an important scientific discovery. “It’s suspicious.” She steals another fry. “Pretty men are dangerous.”

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it.

Her eyes widen, as if she’s shocked to get an actual reaction out of me. “Oh my God. I made you laugh.”

Considering most of our interactions involve me trying very hard not to lose my patience with her, only to leave infinitely more frustrated and pissed off, her comment hits home. It probably is the only time she’s made me genuinely laugh.

I make a face at her.

Does it affect her the same way it affected me when she laughed in my car? Does it make her want to do it again?

I bury the questions under my rational thoughts and nod in her direction. “You look like a disaster.”

“That’s because my parents emotionally waterboarded me.”

I blink once. “…What?”

She waves one hand vaguely through the air. “You know. Divorced people Olympics. Very competitive. Everybody gets trauma.”

I clear my throat roughly. “What’s going on with you tonight?”