Page 52 of On the Breakaway

I point at him defensively. “Allegedly.”

His mouth twitches before he turns away and starts pulling things onto the counter. The kind of groceries adults buy when they have their life together. Eggs. Spinach. Mushrooms. Bell peppers. Cheese.

“I really wasn’t that drunk,” I mutter.

Grayson pauses mid-chop and slowly looks at me.

“You can’t honestly think that.”

His tone has me feeling defensive.

“What?”

“You nearly face-planted onto the floor multiple times, were alone, all over some guy who didn’t care that you could hardly stand, and then threw up.” He resumes chopping vegetables. “That’s not tipsy.”

I cross my arms tighter. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being accurate.”

I roll my eyes, but the truth settles unpleasantly in my stomach because underneath the embarrassment, I know he’s right.

Last night was dangerously stupid. And the worst part is, I knew it was stupid while I did it. I’m surrounded by my friends’ happy relationships and my parents’ shitty one, all the while I’m still screwed up from some asshole who tore me down with nothing but harsh words and control. Last night, I just wanted to stop feeling sorry for myself and prove that I’m not permanently screwed up.

“So what?” I glare at him. “Are you going to give me a safety seminar now?”

“If that’s what it takes.” He starts whisking the eggs harder than necessary. “Do you do this a lot?”

“No.”

“Go out alone and get obliterated?”

My spine stiffens. “I said no.”

He glances at me again, unconvinced. “Did you even know the guy you were dancing with?”

“Yes,” I lie.

“What was his name?”

I open my mouth, but seem to have forgotten every name in existence. “…That feels irrelevant.”

Grayson exhales sharply through his nose and flips something on the stove.

Embarrassment over last night creeps further up my spine, but I shake it away. I’ve had enough of men telling me what I should or shouldn’t be doing to last a lifetime. Just because Grayson decided at some point over the last twelve hours that my well-being is his problem doesn’t mean I have to sit here and listen to this.

“I should go,” I say, biting my bottom lip. “You’ve done your good deed for the year. Congratulations.”

I make it exactly three steps before his voice stops me.

“Sit down.”

I turn back as he slides two plates onto the kitchen island, both loaded with massive omelets that smell so good my stomach clenches.

“No.”

“Chaos.”

“I’m serious.”