people like me don’t change
DOMINIC
Age 23
January
“Yes!”Mia screeches, jumping to her feet as the wordsfinish himflash across the screen. She dances near the couch, swaying her hips, hands in the air. “I won, I won, I won,” she singsongs.
I roll my eyes and toss the controller onto the couch beside me. “Jesus, you’re like a damn cat on crack.”
Doesn’t matter how many times we playMortal Kombat; she always kicks my ass.
Grinning, she plops down on the couch. With one leg under her butt, she flicks her braid off her shoulder, grinning wickedly. Damn. She ended me with one of the most brutal fatalities I’ve ever seen, and she didn’t even break a sweat.
“Don’t hate the player, Dom,” she says, reaching for her glass of grapefruit juice on the coffee table. “Hate that you picked Scorpion again.”
Arm draped across the back of the couch, I lean back and watch her sip her drink. She’s carefree and playful, even after two classes and a shift at the diner. Her eyes are bright, hercheeks flushed. She’s happy, yet beneath the cheerfulness, signs of exhaustion still lurk.
The shadows under her eyes are permanent now, and her shoulders slump when she isn’t distracted by video games or sex. Her whole body practically deflates when she thinks I’m not looking.
“You should quit Luigi’s.”
Her smile fades quickly, like a trap snapping closed. “Don’t start this again.”
My instinct is to appease her, but I stick to my guns. “I’m serious. This isn’t healthy.”
She rolls her lips together and picks up her controller. “Have a little faith in me. I know what I’m doing.”
I pluck the controller out of her hand. “Don’t think I don’t notice how little you sleep. You always have something going on: school, the diner, your freelance projects. The designs for my damn shop?—”
“I like doing that.” She bristles, folding her arms over her chest.
“I know you do.” My voice is as tight as my chest. “But that doesn’t mean it’s not draining you. You’re barely holding it together. What if all the work affects your grades?”
Her brow creases in concern, but the expression vanishes as she slips her mask of nonchalance back on.
“I’m fine. Everything’s fine. And tell me,” she bites out, tilting her head to one side, “if I do as you say, who’s going to pay my bills? Are you going to pay for my trip to Milan?”
I move closer. “Yes. I would if you’d let me.”
“Oh my God! You’re not listening to me.” She stands and paces across the room then whips around, throwing her arms out. “I don’t want your help. Or Allan’s. I can take care of myself.”
“But you’re destroying yourself in the process!”
Her jaw clenches. “I’m done talking about this.”
She snatches her sketchbook off the coffee table then picks up her backpack and storms out onto the balcony.
I breathe a sigh of relief. At least she didn’t leave the apartment. Instead of following her, I pick up the pizza box from the coffee table, as well as our drinks, giving us both time to cool down. Only when the room is picked up and the TV is off do I step outside.
Mia sits in the corner chair she prefers, her hood pulled up to hide her face. She’s completely focused on her sketchbook, ignoring my presence. Her pencil moves fast and confident over the paper, the scratching audible even over the noise of street traffic.
Slowly, I step closer, and when I see what she’s working on, my heart pinches painfully. It’s another motorcycle design—another thing for me, even when she’s furious with me.
Tired, angry, or pissed off, she still wants to help me, and I let her. I take and take and take from her.
Fuck. How did I not notice that before?
