“Did I ask you to?”
Well, that stung. “N-no.”
“You can have the spare room.”
“Right.” Tears filled my eyes. So I’d just stay in his room of torture while he entertained Molly in two days. Great. I think I preferred homelessness.
I begrudgingly followed him down to his car.
We rode in silence all the way to his apartment building. And by the time we settled all my stuff into the guest bedroom, the tension was so thick I was actually sick to my stomach—either that or my stomach was eating itself out of desperation.
At least Lucas left me alone while I put my clothes away in the closet.
A half hour later he knocked on the door and motioned for me to follow him, still no words. So this was fun. Not stressful at all.
I was about five seconds away from having a mental breakdown, and I’ve heard those aren’t pretty.
The kitchen smelled like Thai food.
Mouth watering, I floated over to the breakfast bar and burst into tears.
I was stressed.
The food looked amazing.
And instead of the prince rescuing the princess, the asshole rescued the homeless girl.
Why did I get the messed-up story?
WHY?
“Eat,” he instructed, handing me a fork. I didn’t need convincing. I would eat even if he had stolen the food from a blind grandma. Hunger always won out with me.
Mouth full of food, I barely had time to swallow and yell, “Aren’t you eating?”
He paused, his face indifferent. “I figured I’d let you eat first.”
“No.” I shook my head and stared guiltily down at the food. “I mean, that’s fine—we can eat together.”
As if on cue, because the universe hated me, his cell buzzed on the counter, right next to where I was sitting.
Molly.
The food threatened to come right back up.
“Aren’t you going to answer that?” Tears filled my eyes as I pointed at the stupid phone.
“No,” he whispered. “I’m not.”
“But you will.”
“No.”
“Thorn . . .”
“Avery Bug . . .”
Stupid tears. The harder I tried to suck them in, the more they threatened to fall.
“I love you, you know.” Lucas’s words were a direct hit to my heart and my already waning sanity.
“Is it enough?” I asked, more to myself than to him.
“Damn, I sure hope so.” And then he was gone, softly shutting his bedroom door behind him.
Chapter Forty-Five
LUCAS
She was too exhausted to talk. I knew women. Nothing good ever came from a conversation with a woman when she was so mentally and emotionally exhausted that she almost fell into her pad Thai.
Which meant.
I slept like complete shit.
And eventually moved to the couch in a stupidly vain attempt to hear Avery breathe.
Yes. I wanted to hear her breathe.
I would even have welcomed a snore at this point.
I stared wide-eyed up at the ceiling.
It was Sunday—which was usually my sister’s day.
And my mom, naturally, hadn’t stopped calling about the engagement party to ask why my best friend had decided to bring his drama to such a happy occasion. When she asked how Avery was and why she had to leave, I ignored the question and told her to let us deal with everything on our own—and for once my mom respected my wishes.
I apologized and refused to answer any more phone calls.
But today was about Avery.
At eight, I woke up and made coffee.
At nine, she finally shuffled out of her room, looking the way I felt. Dark circles spread beneath her eyes, and her face was pale.
“That.” Avery pointed at the mug in my hands. Rolling my eyes, I handed the coffee over. Some things never change, no matter how angry you are with a person.
“You’re welcome,” I said in a smooth voice.
She grunted, peering over the rim of the mug with irritation.
“Sorry, I forgot, no talking in the morning.”
Avery nodded and then yawned.
“So, I figured we could go to the market today.”
Still no talking.
“To buy . . . food for tonight.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“And the rest of the week.”
Her mouth dropped open.
“I figured it could be a new thing, fresh groceries for Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday—”
She held up her hand. “I know the days of the week, Thorn.”
I smirked. “I had a really good plan, you know, a really well thought-out speech.” I sighed. “But, Avery, I can’t take you seriously when you’re wearing a Star Trek T-shirt with bright pink shorts.”
She looked down; her cheeks blushed.
“Is that, uh, my shirt?” I pointed.
“Maybe . . .”
“Hmm . . .”
“What were you saying about the days of the week?”
“Why are you wearing my shirt?”
“I stole it.”
“I was saying the days of the week because I figured I should be really, really clear about my intentions. Why did you steal my shirt?”
She shrugged. “And just what are your intentions, Thorn? The shirt’s comfortable, if you must know, and it smells like jackass.” She grinned behind the mug, and I barked out a laugh.
“My intentions are bad, very bad.” I swayed toward her. “On Mondays I plan on licking my way up and down your body—you know, as an extraspecial hello. And what exactly does jackass smell like?”