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He gives my hand a squeeze. “Do we?”
“I mean, there’s one on the tip of my tongue about me already dying a little death this morning.”
“You’ll be dying lots of deaths with me. Now eat,” Brooks replies breezily, making a server who passes draw up short.
I laugh harder. “We shouldn’t be allowed in public.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He drops his napkin on his plate. Nods at my pancakes. “Eat, Greer. I’m serious.”
“About getting the hell out of here?”
“Yes. Also. You were just saying how you wanted to treat yourself better. Start by eating a real breakfast.”
I manage to finish one pancake, a piece of bacon, and most of my cup of coffee. Brooks watches me do it.
“Better?” he murmurs.
I drain my water glass. “Yes, actually.”
“You know, that’s not why I admire you,” he says. “Because you have your shit together.”
My pulse hiccups. Why would someone like him ever admire someone like me? He’s incredibly accomplished: big job, bigger paycheck, body to die for.
He’s winning at life. I’m . . . definitely not.
“I admire you because you keep an open mind. You see the good in things. The possibilities.”
“More like I agonize over them—how things could be.” I pause. Think. “Sometimes I wish I could just accept them for what they are.”
“That’s fair. That’s also part of you figuring out what you need—accepting that you have needs at all.”
I struggle not to stare at him. He’s fucking smart. More than that, he pays attention. He thinks about things, just like I do. It’s nice to know I’m not alone in my struggle to figure life out.
To figure myself out.
Maybe that’s why he’s giving me all this time and space to do just that. Because he understands how difficult the work is, and how important.
I’m so full of feeling I have to look away.
“What I’m trying to say is, you’re not cynical or jaded,” he continues. “You’re also no Pollyanna either. You’re honest. You get there are no simple answers. But that doesn’t stop you from asking questions, even if they complicate things.”
I blink. “Doesn’t that make me more of a complicated pain in the ass than anything?”
“If I wanted simple, I could have simple, sweetheart.”
Can’t help it. I chance stealing a look at him. His eyes are locked on my face, the expression in them serious and surprised, like he’s as shocked as I am by the multiple confessions he just rolled into a single sentence.
“Be a pain in the ass,” he says. “Make yourself heard. Believe me when I say it’s always worth it in the end.”
I don’t know what’s happening until it already does. Suddenly I’m rising out of my chair and leaning over the table. I’m grabbing his sweater in my trembling hand and I’m kissing him the way he kissed me. A collision. A confession of my own.
A cop-out too. I want to keep talking like this, truths traded between us as easily as murder puns. But I’m scared I’ll fall in love with him if we do.
I’m scared I’m already halfway there.
Somehow, kissing him feels safer. It’s not; I know that as his mouth moves hungrily over mine. But it’s the only card I have left to play.
What if I made myself heard?
What might happen if I stopped being so afraid of letting everyone down?
What if I stopped working like a dog and took care of myself instead, the way I’m doing right now? It felt so good to ask for what I needed.
It felt ballsy to put myself first. But I’m learning that being forward like that leads to good things.
It’s ballsy of me to assume Brooks and I are going to hook up again. Even ballsier to initiate round two. But playing and coming and having sex with Brooks feels like a way of taking care of myself. Maybe because I’m finally allowing myself some enjoyment and rest?
Whatever the case, asking him to come upstairs with me is self-serving in so many ways. But so what? It feels good to take for once, rather than give.
It feels good to ask for more than what I think I deserve. What if I actually get it?
I turn my head and whisper in his ear, “The pretzels—some of them have a special ingredient.”
He remains still as a statue, but the muscle in his jaw jumps against his skin. “And?”
“And I want to get high with you. And then I want you to show me more things upstairs.”
His Adam’s apple bobs. “What things?”
“All of them, Brooks.”
The look in his eyes darkens. “Then you’d better eat another pancake. You’ll find I’m very thorough in my instruction.”
Chapter Sixteen
BROOKS
The high hits as Greer and I are stepping out of the shower in my room. Wrapping her in a towel, I feel the lift inside my skin and my stomach. My thoughts are mellow but focused.
