Hopeless

kitchen and brush my teeth. I change out of my tank top and pull on a simple sundress, then gather my hair up in a ponytail. I look at my reflection in the mirror and I see a girl who desperately wants to forgive a boy, but not without a hell of a lot of groveling first.
    When I open the door to my bedroom, I’m met with the smell of bacon and the sound of grease sizzling from the kitchen. I walk down the hallway and around the corner, then pause. I stare at him for a while. His back is to me and he’s working his way around the stove, humming to himself. He’s shoeless, wearing jeans topped with a plain white sleeveless t-shirt. He already feels at home again, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.
    “I left early this morning,” he says, talking with his back still to me, “because I was afraid your mom would walk in and think I was trying to get you pregnant. Then when I went for my run, I passed by your house again and realized her car wasn’t even home and remembered you said she does those trade days the first weekend of every month. So I decided to pick up some groceries because I wanted to cook you breakfast. I also almost bought groceries for lunch and dinner, but maybe we should take it one meal at a time today.” He turns around and faces me, slowly eyeing me up and down. “Happy Birthday. I really like that dress. I bought real milk, you want some?”
    I walk to the bar and keep my eyes trained on him, trying to process the plethora of words that just came out of his mouth. I scoot out a chair and take a seat. He pours me a glass of milk, even though I never said I wanted one, then slides it to me with a huge grin on his face. Before I can take a sip of the milk, he closes the gap between us and takes my chin in his hand.
    “I need to kiss you. Your mouth was so damn perfect last night, I’m scared I dreamt that whole thing.” He brings his mouth to mine and as soon as his tongue caresses mine, I can already tell this is going to be an issue.
    His lips and his tongue and his hands are so incredibly perfect, I’ll never be able to stay mad at him as long as he’s able to use them against me like this. I grab his shirt and force my mouth against his even harder. He groans and fists his hands into my hair, then abruptly lets go and backs away. “Nope,” he says, smiling. “Didn’t dream it.”
    He walks back to the stove and turns off the burners, then transfers the bacon to a plate lined with eggs and toast. He walks it to the bar and begins filling the plate in front of me with food. He takes a seat and begins eating. He’s smiling at me the whole time, and it suddenly hits me.
    I know. I know what’s wrong with him. I know why he’s happy and angry and temperamental and all over the place and it finally makes so much sense.
    “Are we allowed to play Dinner Quest, even though it’s breakfast time?” he asks.
    I take a sip of my milk and nod. “If I get the first question.”
    He lays his fork down on his plate and smiles. “I was thinking about just letting you have all the questions.”
    “I only need the answer to one.”
    He sighs and leans back against his seat, then looks down at his hands. I can tell by the way he’s avoiding my gaze that he already knows I know. His reaction is one of guilt. I lean forward in my chair and glare at him.
    “How long have you been using drugs, Holder?”
    He shoots his eyes up to meet mine and his expression is stoic. He stares at me for a moment and I keep my stance, wanting him to know I’m not letting up until he tells me the truth. He purses his lips together in a tight line, then looks down at his hands again. For a second I’m thinking he might be preparing to bolt out the front door in order to avoid talking about it, but then I see something on his face I wasn’t expecting to see at all. A dimple.
    He’s grimacing, attempting to hold on to his expression, but the corners of his mouth give way and his smile breaks out into laughter.
    He’s laughing and he’s laughing really hard and it’s really pissing me off.
    “ Drugs? ” he says between fits of laughter. “You think I’m on drugs ?” He continues laughing until he realizes that I don’t think it’s the least bit funny at all. He eventually stops and sucks in a deep breath, then reaches across the table and takes my hand in his. “I’m not on drugs, Sky. I promise. I don’t know why you would think that, but I swear.”
    “Then what the hell is wrong with