*Gags*
“Oh . . . wow, that’s, uh, that’s something.”
He glances at me as he jams his fork into the pile. “Do you want me to eat this somewhere else?”
“What? No.”
“I can tell it disgusts you.”
“It doesn’t disgust me, it’s just . . . interesting. I’ve never seen something like it before. Two different kinds of eggs, very fascinating. And that V8, it’s potent.”
The smallest of smirks tugs at the corner of his lip. “I’ll eat it in the kitchen.”
He goes to stand, but I put my hand on his forearm to stop him. “No, please don’t leave. It’s fine, really, and I don’t want to have you sitting over there while I shove croissants in my mouth. I’d rather not eat alone.”
“You sure?” he asks.
“Positive.”
“Okay.” He moves his fork around his meal and then takes a large mouthful. I just stare as he chews, wondering how on earth he can eat that after the marathon of puking he did in his bathroom.
“That doesn’t bother your stomach?”
“Helps it, actually. Something I learned in my college days.” He reaches for his glass of water and takes a sip. “Did you not have a hangover cure in college?”
“I didn’t drink much. Still don’t.”
“Ahh, it’s because you’re a good girl.” He winks and takes another mouthful of his food.
“Maybe I am, but at least I’m not puking out my intestines the next morning,” I reply.
He smirks. “Not my intestines, but I did tell Breaker I might have seen a boot come out of me.”
That makes me snort and cover my nose. “Oh God, I snorted. Ignore that.”
“Nah, just add it to your list of good girl things.”
“Do only good girls snort?”
“Yup.” He picks up the pepper from the table and dusts some across his plate. I take that moment to steep my tea and prepare a croissant with strawberry jam.
“Are you feeling better, at least?”
“I mean, as best as I can. Sort of embarrassed. Didn’t think you could hear me.”
“I don’t think there’s much privacy in these walls, despite how fancy the place is.”
“A note to bring up to Huxley when I talk to him next.” He lifts his napkin and wipes his mouth.
When I think he’s going to say more and he doesn’t, I ask, “Are you okay? I’m sure you’re sick of me asking that, but it seems as though something was bothering you if you drank that much alone.”
His eyes connect with mine, and for the first time since I’ve known him, I see a hint of shame cross them as he looks down. JP doesn’t normally show vulnerability. He’d rather shield it or laugh it off, always presenting himself as the strong, domineering type. But here, on the couch, as he eats breakfast, I can see it written all over his face.
“You must think I’m a loser, huh?” he asks, pushing his food around on his plate.
“Not at all,” I say, setting down my croissant and turning toward him. “I’m just concerned. You seem emotionally erratic at times and I wish you’d talk to me about it. I mean, I get that we’re not friends, or that you don’t want to be friends—”
“I do,” he says, surprising me. “I want to be friends.”
“What?” I ask, entirely confused now. “But I thought—”
“You thought correctly. I told you we can’t be friends and, sure, maybe a part of me still believes that, but I’m also”—he pulls on the back of his neck—“fuck, I have a hard time letting people into my life.” His gaze matches mine. “Have, uh . . . have Lottie or Huxley ever talked to you about my dad?”
“No.” I shake my head, feel my pulse pick up.
JP leans back on the couch and stares at the ceiling. “Growing up, being so close in age to my brothers, we were all at each other’s throats. Huxley constantly pushed boundaries, and always tried to be the best, the first. Breaker was the easygoing one who just went with the flow. Didn’t really care much about anything other than doing the right thing and having a good time. And then I kind of wandered around, attempting to find my place. Never really did. Never felt like I belonged . . . unless I was hanging with my dad. He didn’t get much time off, he was driven like Huxley, but the time I did get with him, he made me feel like I meant something. Like I had something special to offer the world.”