Chapter 20
TWENTY
NAOMI
I t’s just… an arrangement. A casual thing between two casual people.
Except nothing about what we’ve done feels casual. Is not having sex, kind of having sex, something casual?
The way Brandon touched me, how he knows exactly what I need without asking. The tenderness as he cleaned me up. Taking the control away.
We’re not having sex tonight. Or any night until you believe I’m not going anywhere.
It’s been a week, and we didn’t have sex, and he didn’t leave.
I push through the heavy glass doors of Elliot’s restaurant, my heels clicking against the polished floor. The hostess recognizes me, gesturing toward our usual table.
My stomach twists. Not from hunger, I actually managed breakfast today. No, it’s something else. The way he’s been lately… hovering, checking in, sending random texts about his day. Like this morning: Saw a black cat crossing the street. Reminded me of you. Probably plotting world domination too.
He glances up as I approach, those dimples appearing. “Cupcake.”
The nickname used to make me roll my eyes. Now it settles warm in my chest, familiar. Dangerous.
Brandon stands, catching me off guard as he brushes his lips against my cheek. His stubble grazes my skin, sending another hot wave through my body. “Almost thought you wouldn’t come.”
I open my mouth, ready with a retort, but something blocks me. Maybe it’s the way his hand lingers at my waist or how that boyish grin of his makes the edges of my world blur.
Okay. I’ve got two choices here: face whatever this is head-on or bury it so deep that even a team of therapists couldn’t unearth it. Given my track record? Smart money’s on option two.
“Sorry.” I slide into my seat, avoiding his gaze. “Work ran late.”
“Since when do you apologize?”
“Since when do you greet me like that?”
“Since we?—”
“Don’t!” I can’t let him push me into that territory. “Don’t complete that sentence.”
He holds up his hands in mock surrender, settling into his chair. “How’s your week been? Counting down the minutes until you could see me again?”
“You wish.” However, there’s a grain of truth there, buried deep. I have been thinking about him. More than I’d like to.
Luckily, I don’t have to admit it because Marcus, our usual server, strides over with menus.
“We’ll start with the calamari and the bruschetta board,” Brandon says. “And some of those spicy chicken wings. And for the main… I’ll take the beast burger. What do you like, cupcake?”
“The caesar salad, please.”
“Why not try the burger?”
“I had a late lunch,” I lie.
“Did you?” His eyebrow arches. “With who?”
“Does it matter?”
“Everything about you matters.” His words turn soft. “Besides, I’ve got your schedule memorized. You had meetings until four, then budget reviews.”
“Stalking me now?”
“Just keeping tabs on my girlfriend.” He reaches across the table, his fingers brushing mine. “Someone has to make sure you’re taking care of yourself.”
Girlfriend. This is exactly what I was afraid of this softness, this care. It makes everything messy. Complicated.
“That’s not part of our arrangement.” Weekly dinners out, public appearances, maintaining the illusion of a relationship, that’s what we agreed to.
“I think our arrangement had an important and long-overdue upgrade.”
What if we made a mistake?
I glance at the menu, my stomach… also not twisting at the thought of a greasy burger? It’s been days since I last purged. What if I do try it?
“Burger it is.” I snap the menu shut. “But I’ll keep the salad as an add-on please.”
“Atta girl.” His grin widens. “And bring us the ’82 Bordeaux.”
Marcus nods, taking the menus and leaving us alone.
“How was your week?” I ask.
Brandon shrugs. “Paperwork, meetings, conference calls, more meetings.”
“You hate meetings.”
“I hate a lot of things.” His fingers tap an erratic rhythm on the table. “Doesn’t mean I can avoid them forever.”
“Since when are you so… committed to it?”
“Since my brother won’t shut up.” His fingers go rigid. “Or maybe since a certain someone made me realize I can’t keep living in misery.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did. And you were right.”
I didn’t mean he should throw himself into the next.
The waiter returns with our wine and appetizers, and Brandon immediately starts arranging the plates between us, creating a little buffet.
I take a sip of the wine first, letting it linger on my tongue before swallowing. Delicious and rich, a welcome distraction.
Brandon smirks, rolling up his sleeve in that devil-may-care attitude that makes my pulse race faster. “Try this.” He places a piece of calamari on my plate. “Elliot’s changed his recipe. Added some lemon zest to the breading.”
The way he looks at me… it’s like he’s undressing me with his gaze, peeling back every carefully constructed layer until I’m laid bare before him.
It’s unnerving. Exhilarating. Terrifying.
I pick up the calamari, examining it. The crust is light, golden-brown, perfectly crispy. My stomach doesn’t revolt. Maybe it’s because Brandon’s here.
I take a bite. Salt and pepper collide with that hint of lemon he mentioned. It’s… good. Really good.
“Well?”
“It’s good.” I take another bite.
“Good.” He grabs one himself. “What about you? Any juicy accounting scandals I should know about?”
“Oh, tons. You know us accountants, always living on the edge.”
“I don’t know.” His voice drops, low and suggestive. “I can think of a few ways you like to live on the edge.”
Our food arrives, and I’m grateful and horrified for the distraction. The burger looks amazing.
And I’m not terrified.
I pick it up, turning it in my hands. It looks delicious. I take a bite, and flavors explode across my tongue. The meat is perfectly cooked, juicy, and seasoned just right.
It is delicious.
Brandon watches me, a satisfied smirk playing at his lips. “Good?”
I nod, covering my mouth with my napkin as I chew.
One bite after another. No rushing.
Half the burger’s gone before I set it down, my stomach starting to protest the richness of it all. I’m not used to this kind of food.
But I did it.
A smile sneaks its way on my lips.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I just need a moment.”
“Then leave it.” He reaches across the table, but stops short of touching me, before resuming with his own food. “Don’t force it down.”
I nod.
“Elliot really outdid himself with this one.” He pushes around a fry absently while I try to gather myself. “You know, I had something similar planned for my menu… different sauce though. I was gonna do this thing with caramelized onions and?—”
My chest constricts at the pain flashing across his face. “Brandon?”
“More wine?” He grabs the bottle, filling our glasses without waiting for my response, the liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
It’s all there in the white-knuckled grip on the bottle. The restaurant dream. His father’s death. The empty space where his passion used to be.
“Anyway,” he says, voice too bright, too forced. “Did they forget your salad?”
“You miss it, don’t you?”
He freezes for a second too long before shrugging it off. “Miss what?”
“Cooking,” I say. “Are you really going to sell it?”
“You heard everything that morning. With Elijah.”
“I did. And I think you’re lying to yourself.” I straighten. “That restaurant was your dream.”
“Was.” He emphasizes the word. “Past tense. Everything’s fine now. The company’s doing well. I’m doing well.” His lips quirk. “Even we’re doing well, aren’t we?”
His words hit something raw inside me. Are we doing well? This thing between us feels like walking on a tightrope, one wrong move, and we both fall.
I push my plate aside. “Don’t use us as an excuse.”
“An excuse for what?”
“For giving up.”
His eyes flash like a storm brewing beneath calm waters. “You think I’m giving up?”
“Aren’t you? The Brandon I knew in college would never?—”
“The Brandon you knew in college was a naive idiot who thought he could change the world with a fucking spatula.” He drains his wine glass. “Reality check, cupcake. Sometimes, dreams are just that. Dreams.”
How did I miss it? I’ve been so wrapped up in my mess that I didn’t see him drowning. Some girlfriend I am.
Fake girlfriend. This isn’t real. This shouldn’t be my problem.
But the hurt in his eyes? That raw pain?
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says.
“Like what?”
“Like you pity me.”
“I don’t pity you.” My fingers trace the condensation on my water glass. “You’re allowed to want things. To have dreams.”
He laughs, but it’s bitter and hollow, echoing with something deep inside him that he won’t let surface. “Dreams don’t work in my world.”
The defeat in his voice… it isn’t just about cooking. It is deeper, rawer.
Like watching someone give up on themselves.
I know that feeling. Live it every day when I look in the mirror and see the girl who kept silent.
But Brandon… he doesn’t deserve that kind of pain. His passion for cooking was beautiful. Real.
“Neither does being fucking miserable,” I say. “You deserve?—”
“You really want to go there?” His eyes snap to mine, blazing. “Let’s talk about how you haven’t touched your food since that first half. How your hand keeps twitching toward your throat. Starving yourself. Punishing yourself every second of the day. Isn’t that miserable, too?”
I recoil, nausea rising. “Fuck you.”
I do want to run. To hide. To shove my fingers down my throat and purge this whole fucking night away.
But I don’t move. Can’t.
He’s watching me, his eyes dark and unreadable.
Part of me wants to slap him. Another part wants to drag him into the bathroom and lose control.
“Let’s get out of here.” Brandon throws his napkin onto the table.
“What?”
“You heard me.” He signals Marcus for the check. “Or do you want to keep eating?”
I look at the burger and the response of my stomach comes instantly, bile rising.
“Thought so.”
I can’t breathe. Can’t think. The restaurant walls feel like they’re closing in. If I run now, will he follow?
He pulls out his wallet, throwing cash on the table. “Did you drive here?”
“I took a cab.”
“Come on.” He extends his hand. “I’ll get you home.”
The drive to my place is silent. Dead silent. Brandon grips the wheel so tight his fingers blanch, only relaxing once we reach my apartment complex, and he shifts the gear into park.
The motor keeps humming.
He’s right about the twitching, the control, all of it.
But he’s wrong, too. This isn’t just about punishing myself. It’s about… God, I don’t even know anymore. The lines between guilt and control blur more each day.
I glance at Brandon’s profile, illuminated by the streetlight. His jaw clenches and unclenches. The same tension I saw when he talked about his restaurant. We’re both such messes, aren’t we? Running from our demons, pretending we’re fine.
The burger turns heavy in my stomach. Half eaten. A small victory turned sour by our argument. I managed to keep it down though. That’s something, right?
My phone buzzes. Probably Blake checking in. She always knows, somehow, has this sixth sense about my bad nights. But I can’t deal with her concern right now. Can’t handle anyone else’s emotions when mine are scattered all over the place.
I need… control.
“Thanks for dinner.” I reach for the door handle.
“My pleasure.”
Asshole.
I get out, slam the car door shut with a bang, storm into my building, and jam my finger against the elevator button, fighting against the whirlwind of emotions swirling within me.
The second I’m inside my apartment, I kick off my heels and beeline for the kitchen. Yanking the cabinet doors open, I search, search, search… There. Hidden behind boxes of quinoa and kale chips, my secret stash. Cookies, chips, and all the junk food I pretend not to buy. The family-size bag of chips crinkles as I rip it open.
One handful… Two… Three. The salt burns my tongue.
Not enough.
I grab the cookies and stuff them in my mouth until my cheeks bulge. Crumbs scatter across the counter as I tear into package after package, every single bite settling deep in my stomach, protesting, but I don’t stop because if I do, if I let myself think for even a second?—
The doorbell rings.
I freeze, a cookie halfway to my mouth.
Ding dong.
Fuck.
I clutch the chip bag to my chest, creeping toward the door. My sock-covered feet slide silently across the hardwood.
Through the peephole, Brandon’s face is distorted, but I’d recognize those lips and jaw anywhere. He shifts his weight and runs a hand through his hair.
Ding dong.
“Naomi.” His voice carries through the door. “I know you’re in there.”
Maybe if I stay quiet, he’ll?—
“I’m not leaving until you open this door.”
My fingers trace the deadbolt. The metal’s cold against my skin.
“I know what you’re about to do,” he says. “Please don’t.”
Too late. My legs shake. Too much. Too fast. I need to get rid of it.
“Please.” His voice drops to a quiet murmur. “Just… let me in.”
The chip bag crinkles as I squeeze it tighter. I don’t want him to see me like this. “Leave me alone.”
“You know I won’t.” A pause. “Not when you’re spiraling.”
A broken sound escapes me. “I’m not.”
“I’ll sit here all night if I have to.”
“Be my guest.”
“Open the door.”
“I can’t.” My throat closes up. “I can’t stop.”
“Yes, you can.” His voice is gentle. “Put down the food, cupcake. Let me in.”
I stare at the devastation, the chips bag, and the scattered crumbs. Salt and grease coat my fingers, my lips, my chin. I’m disgusting. Pathetic. “Brandon…”
“I’m going to use my key.”
Brandon is not playing by my rules anymore.
He slipped past them, and I let him.
The lock clicks.