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“I know you won’t.” He’s already taken her home, her loved ones. For the past few years, Mack has been living the true crime documentaries I binge-watch. She moved all the way from California to Maine two years ago to escape her abusive ex. He threatened to kill her if she ever left him, so when she managed to escape, she ran as far as she could, leaving behind all the friends and family he’d cut her off from, and started over.
She’s never shown me a picture of James, but just thinking about that man makes my hands ball into fists. Mack is one of my favorite people in the world, and the thought of any scumbag hurting her makes me want to string him up by his balls.
“I guess it would be easier to believe in love when you’ve actually witnessed an example of it,” I admit.
Mack takes my hand and squeezes, even though I don’t need the comfort. I’ve accepted my father for the selfish asshole he is a long time ago. I’m over it. I’ve also accepted myself for the woman I am a long time ago—the kind who won’t put up with anyone’s bullshit.
“You never did tell me how you found out your dad was cheating on your mom,” she says.
“The worst way possible.” My stomach churns at the memory, even ten years later. “She and I were on the phone, making our dinner plans. I was coming back in the house from school and heading up to the bathroom to pee when I heard the shower running. Dad was never home from work that early, but I didn’t think anything of it until I heard a woman moaning in there with him.”
An ill-timed scream from the TV. Mack grimaces, but she shovels a mixture of popcorn and M&Ms in her mouth like my life is far more interesting than the slasher film. “Oh my god. What did you do?”
“I went fucking nuts. I threw the door open so hard, the doorknob busted through the plaster, and I tore the curtain off the rod. I threw it at the two of them before I could see their disgusting, naked bodies. But I’ll never forget the horrified look on my father’s face. He knew he was in deep,deepshit.” I shove the snack bowl toward her, appetite gone. “You and I should co-write a book about shitty fathers.”
“Not every guy is that shitty, though,” Mack insists, folding her legs under her. “What about your college boyfriend? Kyle or Tyler or something.”
“Kyler.” I roll my eyes just saying his name. “And he was exactly like the others. None of them could pass my tests.”
“Tests?”
“Yeah, you know, the tests you give them after a few months. When he starts to drop the chivalrous nice-guy act he was using to get in your pants, so you test him to reveal his true colors.”
Mack laughs. “I have no clue what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Like when you have a random girl message him to test his loyalty or ask him basic questions about yourself to see if he’s actually into you or just into fucking you.”
She lets out a sound that’s halfway between a gasp and a laugh while she swats my shoulder. “Briar! See, this is why you’re single. You go looking for problems. You chase men away before they can get too close and break your heart.”
I shrug. “If I don’t push them away, how do I know they’ll fight for me?”
Not that they ever do. Which only further proves my point.
In my early twenties, I bounced from boring loser to boring loser, none of whom could keep my attention for long or give me better orgasms than my vibrator.
The two or three who managed to stick around longer than six months, who managed to convince me that maybe I was actually capable of falling in love, always proved me wrong in the end. Eyes straying to another woman or giving up as soon as I started to push them away. As soon as I tested their loyalty to me, the supposed “love” they claimed to have for me crumbled.
I’ve learned my lesson. Love breaks you, and I won’t let it break me again.
Mack studies me like I’m a lab experiment. “So if you don’t believe in love, why do you read all those romance books?”
“Because it’s a fantasy. Reading about a fantasy is fun, but you know it’s not reality.”
She rolls her eyes and returns her focus to her phone screen. “Fine, no love then. Just sex. You definitely need to get laid.”
That I can’t argue with.
CHAPTER FOUR
SAINT
As much asI hate to admit it, Derrik may be right. This MFA program is shaping up to be a complete waste of time. A week in, and I’m still at my wit’s end with this novel.
My professors are all unsuccessful poets and literary writers, most of whom refuse to allow their students to write genre fiction. I’ve asked each and every one of them how to break through writer’s block, and not one of them had anything useful to offer. No bit of advice I hadn’t already tried a thousand times. The truth of the matter is none of them have ever been in the position of having hundreds of thousands of readers anticipating your next book, hundreds of thousands of others waiting to read it out of spite, and an eager reviewer hungry to desecrate your latest work.
My cursor blinks back at me, and despite the hour that has ticked by in this coffee shop with an atmosphere perfectly conducive to writing, not a word has appeared on my screen.
At my side, my phone chimes with a text.
