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“My sister wasn’t snatched, and my mom didn’t commit suicide, and my dad didn’t bury himself in his own shit and forget to take care of me?—”
I shook my head and slapped a hand on his chest, then fisted his shirt in my fingers.
“Oh no. We’re not playing that game of who had it worse, Cap. We both had it bad, and I like you. You’re hot and have a beautiful laugh and like dogs, and I am one hundred percentnot okaywith your birth mom being such a goddamnedcunt.”
For a second, he stilled.
Okay, maybe I took that a shade (or a hundred of them) too far.
Then he started laughing.
My head fixed to explode.
“You think this is funny?” I shouted.
“I haven’t seen the woman in nearly two decades. She does not factor in my life.”
“Do you know where she lives?”
“No. Why?”
“Because I wanna go there and cut a bitch.”
He started laughing again.
Cleo snuffled us.
“Stop laughing!” I yelled at Cap.
Cleo scooted away as I landed on my back with Cap’s chest pressed to mine.
His face in my face, he said, “She’s not worth the effort.”
“I hate her,” I declared.
“She’s not worth that emotion.”
“I still hate her.”
His lips were twitching as he replied, “Right. Go for it. The hating her bit. But I don’t know where she lives, and I don’t give enough fucks to find out. Even for you.”
Ugh.
Moving on.
“Is my makeup ruined?”
“Yes.”
“Are you mad we missed Vincent’s?”
“No.”
“Are you mad you’re gonna lose your booking deposit for Platform 18?”
“No, again.”
“Are you hungry?”
