I try to hide my racing heart behind my calloused resentment. “What does Martha have to do with Ruby?”
He scrubs his hands over his eyes, losing patience with me.Good. He’ll leave before it escalates too far.
“More than you know. I’m serious, Calypso,” he warns, voice dropping to an unfamiliar dark tone. “Get rid of him.”
Fear punches me in the gut, kicking my instincts into overdrive. Stefan’s anger is an old companion to my own, but he’s never been this crazed before. Through the accusations, manipulating, divorce—none of it has ever pulled a reaction likethisout of him.
Making a quick decision, I start to close the door but he slams a hand against the wood. It’s not hard enough to push me out of the way, but my foot gets caught underneath. Biting my cheek, I fight off a grimace. It makes a loudthudthat travels through my small foyer.
“Stefan, you need to leave.” The door is still digging into the top of my foot, but I don’t risk moving it while his hand is still pressed against it.
“Just fucking listen to me—”
A small black blob comes running across the house like a bullet from out back. Before I can try to catch her, Rosie slips between my legs and goes straight for Stefan’s legs.
“What thefuck?” he shouts as she starts biting his ankles. He’s trying to step on her but she’s quick and agile, so he’s more so hopping away from her. Suddenly, aripsounds through the air and she drops a piece of dark fabric before snapping at him again.
He grunts and almost trips backwards. “Are you going todosomething?”
“Are you going to leave?” I ask.
Rosie rips off another piece of fabric and Stefan misses the step behind him. The scene plays out like a cartoon; Rosie is victoriously shaking the scrap of fabric in her ferocious, little muzzle as Stefan’s legs go parallel to the ground before he starts falling.
“Fuck,” he grunts as his ass hits the cement.
I’m stunned speechless when Rosie growls at him, positioning herself on the step in front of me. He’s pulling himself up as a few of my neighbors walk out, concerned and nosy about the commotion.
I’m stepping back, trying to hide myself behind the door.
“Rosie,” I hiss. “Rosie, come here!”
Stefan turns toward the Bentley his dad bought him and notices the small crowd. He throws me one final glare before getting in his car, flaying me with his bitter humiliation. “We’re going to talk about this.”
Rosie doesn’t leave her post at the top of the stairs until he’s halfway down the street. A few of the neighbors linger on their porches, making sure he isn’t coming back, but don’t inquire to feed their own curiosity.
Looking back, Rosie’s tongue is sticking out and her tail wags. My blood throbs in my ears, and yet I can’t help but snicker a little.
“Don’t tell your dad,” I say, feeling ridiculous for talking to a dogandcalling Liam that. Dropping to my knees, I scratch her ears, and I’m surprised by the comfort it brings me. “But you aren’t so bad.”
She yelps as if she can understand me and I push the door open a little more for her. “Come on, let’s have breakfast.”
She follows me inside where I quickly Google the best ways to serve eggs to dogs, and settle on adding a scrambled egg to her food.
First, I have to run upstairs to clean the cut on top of my foot. It’s more of an abrasion, only scraping off a few layers of skin. Still, I clean it as well as I can—flinching as I wipe thealcohol pad across it—and add a bandaid for good measure. It’s more to avoid rubbing than to stop bleeding.
Walking back to Rosie, waiting patiently on the couch, I consider what to tell Liam. I won’t even entertain the idea of him not noticing the bandaid, or worse, the red mark itself.
As I crack an egg, the scenarios race through my head, each one less convincing than the last. He’s been here for a few days now, and has commented on how much I hate wearing socks at home. I’d rather my feet be ice cubes if it means staying barefoot, especially when I have a personal furnace for the time being. He’s clever enough to question who came to visit me this early, if I adjusted my story slightly.
I serve Rosie’s kibble and freshly cooked eggs, but my stomach sours the longer I think about lying to Liam. We’re supposed to be helping each other, and I would be angry if something happened at the dance studio that I wasn’t informed about.
After our run-in with Stefan last weekend, I worry this could really be Liam’s breaking point. Despite what he argues, IknowStefan isn’t worth it. Ignoring him until he loses interest is the best solution.
Ifhe loses interest, a quiet, honest part of me admits before I tuck it away. Like I do with all the emotions that make me feel uncomfortable, raw.
Setting the bowl down, I pointlessly remind her, “This stays between us.”
She barks in agreement—it’s been one weekend and I’m going crazy—before I sit at the island, eating my oats and a bagel with a fresh cup of coffee. No matter how hard I try, I can’t rid myself of the sticky, exposed sensation the longer Stefan’s words prick at me. Each one a sharp, barbed cactus needle that embeds itself in my skin.
