I rub my arm.
“The violent stalker that I just talked to that you’re willfully pretending isn’t a problem? Guess I’ll call off my hit men.”
“No! And don’t call any hit men. Andreas is fine. Everything is fine. It’s a misunderstanding.” I wave my arms. “This is my other ex-fiancé. He… Well, if you must know, he was the first boy I ever loved.”
McCarthy makes a disgusted noise. “I hope you never fall in love with me. I’d have to stick my head in an oven because it would mean I clearly failed at life.”
“It’s complicated. Brock was a complete dick, sure—”
“Of course he was.”
“—but he’s dead now. Woo…” I shake a fist, my chin trembling. Instead of asking me if I’m okay, making some sort of blandly sympathetic statement, or saying anything a normal person would say, McCarthy’s eyes drift from my mouth, down my too-tight repurposed club dress from my early twenties, then back up to meet my eyes.
“So that’s why you’re not wearing any underwear. You’re going to piss on his grave.”
“You—” I sputter. “I donotleave the house without underwear.”
I don’t look at him as I rummage around the back seat for the gel pens that spilled out of my bag.
McCarthy makes a thoughtful noise.
I whirl around, banging my hand on the door, and grab the hem of my dress to clamp it down. I am wearing underwear. It’s a thong. Which is underwear. Partially.
“Are you one of those girls who only sleeps with guys once she’s in a committed relationship that leads to marriage?”
“I believe in true love.”
“Three fiancés. I mean, yeah, obviously. What’s more true love than that?”
“Are you one of those guys who just has sex for no reason?” I shoot back.
“Oh…”
I want to punch him for that patronizing, knowing tone.
“What?”
“Nothing. Never mind. You’re clearly not in a good place right now.” A smirk twitches on his mouth.
“Say it.”
He runs his thumb over his bottom lip.
“You’re one of those girls who’s never actually had an orgasm. You know, the ‘close your eyes and think of England’ type. Sex is a means to the happy family you never had. You believe that once you hold that baby, you’ll be able to tell yourself, ‘See, everything was worth it.’ Except it’s not. Not really. Because nothing actually changed, especially not you.”
God, I’ve never hated anyone the way I hate McCarthy in that moment.
I grab my dog and stuff him in the pink quilted tote bag. “Get out of my way. I can’t miss the bus.”
“You don’t want to drive?” He jingles the keys at me.
I pause, suspicious. “You want me to take the car?”
“I’m certainly not riding the bus.”
His eyebrows rise as the horror of recognition dawns on my face.
“No.”
