Page 2 of Tripped Up

He knew I heard.

And I’ve never been able to forget that.

I met Bex several years later in grad school, and it was another year and a half before I had a reason to meet her brother.

And when we met up in that dirty college dive bar, it was clear from the blank look on his face that he didn’t remember me. He introduced himself with a disinterested handshake and immediately started hitting on another woman.

Since then, he’s always treated me like any of Bex’s other friends. Distant. Sometimes cold. Never cruel. It’s clear he has no idea why I dislike him, but he’s always given it back just as good, so evidently it doesn’t bother him.

Wyatt sets the bag of takeout on the counter. “What do you want first, building furniture or lunch?”

“Lunch. Definitely,” Bex answers for us.

My stomach lurches, and it’s not from hunger. I hate eating in front of him. Over the years, we’ve only shared a few meals together, and always with his sister chaperoning. It makes me remember the sick feeling in my stomach that morning after we hooked up. I’m fat. I know I’m fat. I don’t need it pointed out to me. Especially after a man had me naked in his bed.

Eating in front of him? That’s a level of vulnerability I’ve never been able to get over. Almost as big as taking my shirt off in front of a man.

The apartment has a high counter with a bar area, but I don’t have stools yet, so we stand around the peninsula. Even though I didn’t bring much furniture with me, I have enough stuff to clutter the place. It sets my teeth on edge and pricks at my skin like a million bee stings.

That reminds me; I need to take my meds. Fishing the bottle out of my purse, I take deep, calming breaths, then tap a tablet into my palm and wash it down with a gulp of Coke. The carbonation makes it not the most pleasant experience, but one I’m well used to. Water is for the weak.

Bex grabs the bag of food, handing me the tuna salad sandwich and giving Wyatt two turkey clubs, keeping the roast beef for herself. She must have told him tuna salad is my favorite. Everyone else hates it, which means more for me. There’s even a container of potato salad. Score!

“This place is right around the corner,” Wyatt says.

I arch an eyebrow. Why is he talking to me?

“I snagged their menu in case you want to order from them again.” He practically unhinges his jaw and shoves a club triangle into his mouth.

“I’m surprised you didn’t get pizza,” Bex says. “That’s the classic moving food.”

“Eliza doesn’t like pizza.”

The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I hate when he calls me pet names. But also⁠—

“And exactly how do you know I don’t like pizza?”

I mean, I don’t. Red sauce is so not my thing, and it always gives me heartburn. Pepperoni is great, though—on its own, or in a sandwich, or even on a salad.

Wyatt shrugs again. “You’ve mentioned it.”

“No, I haven’t.” Because people usually make fun of me or tell me it’s impossible that I don’t like it. I haven’t had a good one. I haven’t tried it enough. It’s like sex. When it’s good, it’s good. When it’s bad… it’s still sex, so it can’t be all bad. Right?

Sadly, like pizza for me, sex has always been bad.

Including sex with this asshat.

Well—the actual time we were in bed was fine. Decent. Above average. It’s what happened afterward that’s ruined my opinion.

“Sure you have,” he insists.

My eyes narrow. “When have we ever had pizza together?” I don’t know why I’m pushing this. It’s weird that he knows this about me when most people don’t. Hell, I don’t think Bex even realized I don’t eat it. Usually, we order Thai or Mexican.

Past tense. Ordered. Because we won’t be living together anymore.

Blowing out a breath, I pick at my sandwich, my appetite evaporating at the reminder. Even though I’ve moved crisscross the country on multiple occasions, this one is hitting the hardest. I loved my life in Boston. I have a large network of friends there, good friends. I have a job I loved.

Had.