Chapter 25
Drew
I
open up the door to my apartment, Emmett right behind me, and we walk in. I leave the TV on pretty much 24/7 now, so we’re greeted by the episode of New Girl where Winston steals his girlfriend’s cat because she was cheating on him.
I take off my shoes and start walking to the couch. Hearing no footsteps behind me, I turn around to see Emmett is still in the doorway, waiting for an invitation.
On the surface, Emmett and I are still getting to know each other, so it makes sense. But I think today has been a turning point for us. We are still in the early stages of whatever this is. Friendship, maybe? We have shared these intense moments lately, but it is understandable that there is still a level of uncertainty as to where we stand with one another.
Emmett has caught at my absolute lowest, yet he knows exactly what I need without me having to say it.
“You can come in.” I see him take a step towards me. “But take your shoes off.”
He smiles and complies, shutting the door behind him.
I sit down on the couch, and Emmett walks over to take a seat next to me.
We sit, watching the TV, shoulders touching, eyes facing forward.
“Have you seen this show before I ask?”
“New Girl? No, but I’ve listened to it a few times.” I turn to find him smirking at me, reminding me that this is my downstairs neighbor who always finds a reason to complain about how loud I am.
But I like seeing this side of him.
I smile back, feeling my cheeks blush.
“You do that a lot.”
“What?” I ask.
“Blush.”
“Yeah, it seems to happen around you a lot. I think it’s because you always seem to find me in my worst moments.”
He smiles at my admission but it’s a sad, knowing smile.
“So,” I begin before he can make my cheeks turn any more red, “I feel like you know a lot about me, but I know nothing about you.”
“Go on.”
“What’s your favorite Pop-Tart flavor?”
He lets out a laugh, one capable of making my butterflies fly. “Out of all the things you could ask me, that’s your question?”
“You mentioned I had bad taste in Pop-Tart flavors at the bar, which is very much untrue, so I feel like it is only fair to know what flavor you like!”
“S’more.”
“Disgusting,” I deadpan.
He shows a face of fake-offense. “You cannot tell me S’more is worse than blueberry!” He gives me a playful bump on the shoulder with his.
“You should be embarrassed. The fruity flavors top any non-fruity flavor!” I bump back.
“Well, I think you’re wrong.”
“Oh, yeah?” I spring off the couch, go to my pantry, and pull out the last silver foil package, and sit back down.
I rip open the Pop-Tarts, sliding one out and breaking it in half. I hand one half to Emmett while taking the other half for myself.
“Cheers,” I say holding up mine to clink with his.
He cheers me and then takes a bite.
Chewing once, “Absolutely not.” He hands me over his half.
“Whatever. More for me!”
“Is this what you consider a meal? No wonder you’re so short. All the sugar stunted your growth,” he says with a mouth full of dry pastry and hardened frosting. He looks like he is actually struggling to finish chewing before swallowing, and I find it absolutely hilarious to watch.
I stick my tongue out on him, happy to have the sugary pastry all to myself.
“I can’t believe they even market them as breakfast. They’re a dessert!” He shakes his head at me, but his lips are stretched wide, showing me a grin that tells me he’s enjoying this as much as me.
Emmett turns to look at me. “Breakfast is the best meal of the day with arguably the best food choices, and you’re telling me you’d rather this?” He takes the two halves from me, one in each hand.
“Hey! Give those back!” I reach for his hands, but he stands up before I can reach him, holding them high above his head, almost touching my ceiling.
Looking down at me, laughing at my struggle, “Let me show you a real breakfast.”
I freeze, arms still up in the air, realizing my chest is pressed up against him, only reaching just below his.
I bring my arms down. “That sounds like a loaded request.”
He chuckles at my insinuation. “No strings attached.”
“Okay… But it’s nighttime, and breakfast is in,” I look past him at my oven clock, “over twelve hours.”
“Sweetheart, haven’t you ever heard of breakfast for dinner?”