“Free,” I repeat.
Oakley scoots over and pats the couch right under one of the misters. He started doing that when he discovered Corsos areprone to heat stress. Cupcake nudges my thigh, then lopes off to sit next to her second-favorite human.
At least I think I’m still her favorite human. I’m not a good judge of that kind of thing though.
Speaking of things I’m not a good judge of, I don’t know if it’s a good or bad thing that he and Amelia were talking about me.
Oakley said I could trust him. He wouldn’t tell her anything private.
He also wouldn’t make fun of me.
I don’t think.
So…probably not a bad thing.
All I know is that I waited to join the Friday pool party until I thought I’d be the last one up. I hate it when I end up in the situation I was desperately trying to avoid.
And now I’m standing here like a weirdo.
Because I definitely heard Amelia say something about me being Oakley’s type.
Which is totally a lie.
One hundred percent false.
Nowhere near the realm of true.
Breathe, Sy.
I mean…if I had been his type, that was definitely before he saw the real me.
Cupcake whines, and I shake my head, then spin on my heel and head for the outdoor kitchen.
Sometimes it strikes me as deeply weird—unsettling?—how easy it is to simply go to the refrigerator and find something to eat. To know that if I finish off the beer or the snacks or whatever, the food will be replenished by the next day by people hired to do that.
I don’t remember anything about the days I was left alone.Just that I was so fucking hungry. And furious at being left behind.
I blink back to the present.
Why does my brain do this?
I’m standing here in front of the refrigerator, reliving my entire life, while Oakley’s dehydrating on the couch. I grab the Modelos and turn to find Cupcake in Oakley’s lap. He’s baby-talking her and stroking her back, and it’s so precious that it makes me want to kill something.
Not Cupcake. Never Cupcake.
Or Oakley.
Or the Wildlings.
I shake the murder cobwebs from my mind and open the beers, handing one to Oakley.
“Thanks,” he says, clinking his bottle against mine.
He’s got an expression on his face that I can’t figure out. He’s smiling at me, but his eyes don’t agree with his mouth. Honestly, he looks a little constipated.
“Is something wrong?” I ask, hoping the answer isn’t me.
Oakley’s eyes widen, but he shakes his head. Another mismatch. He goes to take a sip of beer, then thinks better of it, nailing me with a searching look.
