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“I want to know why you want it so badly,” she said, leaning against the back of the bench.
I scowled. “If you used it, you already know.”
A silence stretched between us.
A standoff.
Then finally, she said, “I have some questions.”
I gestured to the bench. “Well be my fucking guest. I’ve got answers, but they’re not gonna taste good.”
“I’ve always preferred bitter, anyway,” she mumbled as she sat.
“Right. You like whiskey.”
As I sat next to her, I resisted the urge to drape my arm across the back of the bench: my normal I’m-in-control-of-this-room pose. I didn’t want her to think I was coming on to her or anything. In fact, I wanted to project the truth: that I was trying to get this over with as fast as fucking possible.
“I’m surprised you remembered that detail,” Grace remarked, her judgmental eyes on a group of swans swimming in the lake nearby. Their curved necks looked like question marks drifting across the surface.
“Of course I remember details. That’s where the devil is. Hail Satan.”
She shot me a disgusted look.
Delight pulsed through me.
I loved getting under basic people’s skin like this. I loved reminding them that outside the orbit of their perfect life, there were assholes like me messing with their cookie-cutter worldview.
Still though, something about her made me feel like I needed to explain myself. It must have been the teacher vibe she had going on. “I’m just kidding. I’m not a satanist,” I admitted, propping my ankle on my knee. “But that pen is straight from hell.”
“Why do you keep saying that?”
“Have you noticed your shit going sideways? If it hasn’t yet, it’s about to.”
She paused and blinked several times, as if wrestling with a memory.
I knew that look. I could practicallyseewhat was going on in her thought bubble.
“Your ex made an appearance,” I tested.
I knew she had to take it from here. Because if I explained the whole situation, she would walk away and take my pen with her.
She sighed. “Yeah, actually.”
I frowned. Thelastthing I wanted to deal with was one of those annoying touchy-feely type people that let stupid, ordinary things like seeing an ex derail their whole week.
But I wanted something from her, so I needed to play nice.
“That guy at the party,” I said, thinking of that obnoxious dude—Dior Model—at the bar. Couldn’t remember his fucking name to save my life, but I’d seen him talking to her shortly before I left.
Summer had texted me to come me home and we yelled at each other some more. Screamed at each other, had hate sex. That’s what we always did: screamed at each other, then had hate sex. It was a wicked cycle.
One I longed to break, and one I longed to keep. Fuck, I wasn’t sure what I was going to do about it. All I knew was that the only way to have control was to have that pen.
I watched Grace’s fingers tighten on the base of the bench.
Discomfort. Shame.
“You slept with him.”
