Page 36 of The Breakup Artists

“Wow, really?” He chuckles. “You might be the first person to ever call me that.”

I shrug, even though if someone told me I’d be in Bentley’s kitchen today complimenting him, I’d have bet money against it. “Yeah, well, you cook for them and settle their arguments. And... you wear an apron.”

His grin is so big that it takes over his face. “You like my apron?”

“I mean, a little. I’m not gonna lie.”

He looks down at his chest. “Well, damn. I wish I’d known that sooner. I may never take this thing off now.”

Another silence descends, and once again I feel the need to fill the space.

“Maybe, just maybe, you’re not who I thought you were, Bentley,” I say and then clarify with, “In a good way.” My pause unintentionally makes it sounds significant, and I instantly feel blood rushing to my cheeks.

“Funny,” he says. “Because you’re exactly who I thought you were. In a good way.” Each word carries the weight of a real compliment.

We make eye contact and my empty stomach does a small flip, nothing life altering, but also a feeling I’ve never had before with Bentley.

Unsure how to respond, I slide onto a vinyl chair at the table, expecting that he’s going to return to the stove to cook a replacement sandwich, but then I spot the empty bread bag on the counter.

“Want half of mine?” I ask, pushing the plate forward.

He sits in the chair next to me. “You eat.”

“I have bread at my house if you want,” I offer.

Now his cheeks flush. “We have food.”

I fidget in my seat, realizing he totally misunderstood me. “I just meant that if you want to make another grilled cheese and you’re out of bread, I’d be happy to grab some from my house.”

“So,” he says, quickly changing the subject, “what’s your thing with August?”

“My thing?”

He leans back in his chair, balancing it on two legs. “I mean, you’re always with him.”

I look at him sideways.

“I just mean... don’t you get tired of only hanging out with one person?”

Whatever fuzzy feeling there was between us vanishes. “You’re asking me if I get tired of my best friend?”

“You’re taking it wrong,” he says and attempts to clarify with, “All I’m saying is... think of him as a video game. You might love the game, be obsessed with it even. But there are more games out there to try. Fun games. Better games.” He says this casually, like I wouldn’t die defending August’s honor.

“There’s no better than August. Period,” I correct him.

“You’re not understanding me,” he says.

I sit back in my chair. “Okay, then tell me, what would these better games be? Areyoua better game?”

He sighs, like it’s me who made this conversation weird. “Maybe. Maybe not. But how will you ever know if you don’t try to play?” He opens his arms like an invitation.

Now I roll my eyes.

“Relax, Valentine. It was just a question. You’re the one who’s getting so serious.”

I take a breath. “Why can’t you... why do you have to say obnoxious things?Always.” But what I mean is,Why do you have to say obnoxious things right when I was starting to like you?

“It’s called having a sense of humor,” he says, like my ability to laugh is the problem. “I know August doesn’t have one, but I thought you did.”