Page 18 of Loverboy

“You want me to.” Jasper didn’t so much as glance at me, heading straight to the kitchen and rifling through the drawers.

“I’ll be fine for a little while if you need time,” I grumbled.

He ignored me, tugging a measuring tape from a drawer and brushing past me with purposeful strides. I fidgeted with the hem of my shirt as I watched him from the hallway. He stood in the doorway, making small contemplative sounds as he assessed the space. Every murmur set me further on edge.

God, I really wanted it to work.

The only things I kept in there were soft-box lights and rolled-up photography backdrops, and without Sofia, those could easily be moved into my nearly bare bedroom closet.

Seeing my equipment and thinking about the handful of SD cards I still hadn’t opened brought on a familiar ache. I still needed to scrub away the evidence of her—the boudoir shots, the candid photos, the intimate ones from when we fucked. The finality of it made my throat close.

Sunlight bled through the balcony door as I paced between the kitchenette and the hallway, sick with nerves. If he took any longer, I was going to throw up again. He still had time to back out. To decide that the space was too small. To leave me all alone again.

“Well,” Jasper started, giving the door frame a pat. “Believe it or not, we could definitely fit a single mattress in there. That’s pretty much the only thing that would fit, but you know.” He shrugged.

“Is that good enough?” I asked, terrified to let myself feel relief until I knew it was really happening. “I mean, you don’t need everything, right? Some stuff can stay at Mom’s. When my lease is up in the spring, I’ll come back home with you.”

Realization dawned on me. I hadn’t even asked if I could. Was I allowed to go home? Did they realize how much easier it was without me around? I wasn’t family by blood. They didn’t owe me anything, in the end.

He glared at me. “Whatever you need. I told you that already.”

“Okay.” I swallowed my instinct to fight help. “And the stuff in there, I can move it into my bedroom closet.”

“I’m not going to tell you again,” he scolded, following me over to the coffee machine and hooking an arm around the back of my neck while he grabbed a mug. “When I say whatever you need, I mean it.”

“I need too much.” I shrugged his hand off and stepped back. “You see what happens when I’m selfish.”

Jasper scoffed. “I think the girls you pick just suck.”

“I don’t think it’s them.” I shrank inward.

Life would be a lot easier if that were true, but it wasn’t. Even so, Jasper never admitted I was the problem. It didn’t matter how terrible anything I did or said was; it didn’t seem like there were any limits for him. But there had to be.

I just hadn’t found them yet.

My nicotine addiction called, and I slipped onto the balcony, watching him from outside. He poured himself a mug, then a second one for me. My lips curled as I watched him pour a ridiculous amount of creamer into it, the same way I used to drink it when we were younger.

“I use less now, you know.” I poked my head in through the sliding door.

“Since when?” He stared at me as if I’d insulted him.

“I dunno. A while.” I tilted my head, exhaling a large plume of smoke outside. “Like half the amount you put in.”

“Well then, what the hell am I supposed to do with this shit?” he deadpanned.

Jasper never liked the way I took my coffee.

He dumped it into the sink with an offended shake of his head, then stepped onto the balcony and offered me his mug.

“I didn’t brew a whole pot.” I frowned. “I would’ve just drunk it.”

“I’ll make another.” He shoved the mug into my hands, like inconveniencing himself for me was second nature.

Be more selfish, Milo.

I bit my cheek and took the freshly brewed coffee, stewing in my thoughts. He had no idea what he was getting himself into. We hadn’t lived together for a while, and I had only gotten worse. How long would it take him to realize I was beyond helping?

Age and experience had done nothing to make me more independent. I was terrible at making appointments, had no idea how to cook, and barely had a grip on filing my own taxes. The more life went on, the more codependent I seemed to become. I was getting worse, not better.