"What's so funny about it?"
She leaned forward, closing the space between us. "I'd like to see you drink it in front of me and all these people here." She jerked her head at a random direction, one eyebrow pinched.
My pulse stuttered.
"That's right," she mouthed at me, dropping back into her bench. "You can't." She offered me a biting grin, then waved at the waitress and asked for something that apparently contained a fruit.
When the waitress returned with Kimmy's drink, it arrived in a tall glass with an umbrella and a color that screamednot juice.
"No," I said flatly, reaching for it.
"Yes," she countered, already sucking the straw into her mouth.
My blood was boiling.Why was she making me this mad?"You nearly threw up twenty minutes ago. Your blood sugar is probably shot. Alcohol is the last thing?—"
"I'm aware of what I'm doing." That same defiant edge I'd been noticing lately crept back into her voice. The one that said she was done listening to reason. "Besides, it's basically fruit punch."
"It's basically one more headache I don't need."
But she was already taking a long pull, her eyes locked on mine over the rim of the glass like she was making a point. The smirk that followed—and that I'd never seen before—told me she knew exactly what she was doing—testing me, pushing boundaries, doing the opposite of what I'd said simply because I'd said it.
I watched her take another sip. Then another. The color in her cheeks deepened. Her shoulders seemed to loosen incrementally with each ounce consumed.
"You're going to regret that," I said quietly.
"Probably." She set the glass down and picked at the remains of her sandwich. "But at least I'll regret it feeling something other than terrified."
The diner hummed around us. A couple arguing softly in a booth two tables over. The clink of dishes from the kitchen. The waitress moving past with practiced efficiency, pretending not to notice the drunk guy who was trying to grab her skirt.
"You know what happened last time I got drunk?" Kimmy asked all of a sudden.
I shook my head.
"I ended up hiring you," she whispered.
I said nothing.
"See, sometimes good things happen when you least expect them," she added.
"And meeting me is a good thing?"
She took another sip of her drink and waved at the waitress to order another one. I knew better than to argue. I also liked this version of Kimmy—relaxed, smiley, and a little chaotic. I'd never seen her this way and I wondered if that's what she'd been like before theincident.
"You know what happened the time I got drunk before the last?" Her brown eyes darkened, turned almost black.
I swallowed.
"The men who raped me happened," she uttered. Her voice was low, a half-whisper. But there was something in her tone, a kind of acceptance you didn't hear often from victims of assault. No, not victim. I couldn't think of her this way anymore.
My gut tightened. Purely physical reaction, I told myself. But deep down I knew it wasn't. It was something born out of compassion and understanding I didn't think I possessed. Maybe some other feeling I couldn't name just yet. Her presence was fucking with my head.
"I'm sorry," I rasped out.
"For what? You didn't do it."
The waitress approached with the second drink right when I was about to respond. Kimmy swirled her drink, watching the ice clink against theglass, before trying it. She studied the liquid for a second, then smacked her lips and drawled out, "Yummy."
I needed to stop her from getting drunk but I couldn't. Instead, I watched her pick at leftovers of food on her plate until I finally managed to say, "You understand that these people baited you today, right?"
