Page 38 of This Life of Mine

As the moment crests into something inevitable, something I’ve been in need of for months, the damn doorbell rings.

We both groan in unison.

“Who the hell is that this late?” he mutters.

I express my exasperation.

“Your house. Your problem. And if it’s a woman, tell her it’s my night.”

He laughs. “Or I could ask if she wants to join.”

I shoot him a look. “Absolutely not.”

“All right, all right,” he says, hands up. “I’ll be right back. Probably the neighbor or something.”

He disappears down the hall, and I take the opportunity to step into the bathroom to splash cool water on my neck—steadying myself. When I come back out, the front door is closing.

EJ stands there holding…a Wingstop bag?

I blink. “Did you order food?”

“Nope,” he says, amused. “DoorDash guy had my address and info, but nothing hit my account. Looks like free food.” He lifts the bag, smiling like it’s candy. “You hungry?”

I sigh, half-laughing. “Well, there goes whatever we were doing.”

I shrug. “Yeah. I can eat.”

Chapter twelve

Lina

While sharing wings with EJ—we talked—a lot. No flirting. No playful banter. Actual conversation. The kind that belongs on a date. The kind where you learn something about the other person and decide whether this was a mistake or not.

This was definitely a mistake.

I hadn’t realized how limited my knowledge of EJ was until he started speaking.

The stories were endless.

Our usual routine never required words. I go to his place, we fall into his bed, and the night blurs until exhaustion takes over. I get up and leave before morning. No daylight.

This…sitting across from him, picking at wings, and making small talk, was an entirely different kind of intimacy. And it was ruining everything.

The more he talked, the more the gaps between our personalities showed. How little we actually have in common. How casually insensitive he is, brushing off anything that requires empathy.

He talked about wanting to stay a single bachelor forever, like ambition is a government trap instead of a choice. Professionally, he has nothing to show for it. No plans. No curiosity. No hunger to build anything beyond the next weekend.

He has this house because his parents rent it to him for four hundred dollars a month. Four hundred. I nearly choked, like it’s normal, like it’s something he earned. He works for his father as a laborer for a construction company. No college. No interest in it, either. No history of a long-term relationship. No sense that he’s ever had to grow alongside someone, or for someone.

His evenings revolve around smoking weed until he passes out, or fucking until he does. Sometimes both. He said it like a joke. Like a lifestyle.

He also spent ten minutes telling me about a dream he supposedly had while taking a nap before I came over.

According to EJ, some terrifying man dressed entirely in black was standing over him in his living room. Black clothes. Black mask. Black hood. Apparently the guy had some kind of distorted voice that sounded “like a demon.”

I nearly choked on my drink.

EJ swore he wasn’t kidding.