Page 56 of Never Your Valentine

“It’s a wedding invitation. I’m going to burn it.”

“Not indoors.”

“Dammit.” Angry tears pool at the edges of her eyes.

I open the door wider. “Come in for a minute. What’s going on?”

“I don’t need to come in. I need to go downstairs.” She grabs my sleeve and tries to pull me into the hall. “You need to unlock your stupid rage room for me and I need to smash all the things because I can’t smash his stupid face.”

“Whose face?”

“Magnus Wright. That’s the sewer-dweller I used to date. He’s marrying my mean-girl frenemy who—come to find out—he’d been screwing behind my back. I guess they’re screwing openly now, because she’s pregnant.”

“Oh, shit.” I hover in the doorway, my hands twitching at my sides like they’re waiting for instructions I don’t have. “Do you maybe want to call June or Lia?”

Annabelle shakes her head furiously. “For years, I didn’t get anything but a pity fuck and Magnus is giving Jacqueline a wedding ring and a whole complete baby!”

“Don’t babies usually come whole and complete?”

“Shut up.”

“I’m sorry.” I press a hand to my lips. “For you. For this situation. This is…a lot.”

“Don’t. Don’t. Stop, stop, stop.” Annabelle gestures too big for the space, palm slicing the air once, then clenching into a fist she presses against her thigh. “Stop that right now. We’re not doing that. We’re not going to be sad. I’m not going to be sad. I’m going to stay extremely, completely, totally pissed off.”

“Works for me,” I say. Her intensity is slightly scary. And also intriguing.

She straightens and swipes her thumb hard across the dark, cracked phone screen. “Can we go now? Can I break stuff?”

“Have you been drinking? I can’t let you use the rage room if you’ve been⁠—”

“Listen, asshole. I haven’t been drinking. I don’t need to phone a friend. I’m a woman who’s been wronged. And—” She holds her thumb and forefinger a half inch apart. “I’m this close to doing something that will get me a prison sentence. So are you going to let me use the rage room or not?”

“I am. Definitely.” I hold the door open with my foot as I grab my keys. “I kind of like this for your villain origin story.”

I take her downstairs and make her sign the liability waiver. We run through the safety information which I’m not sure she hears, but I’ll be here to help if she completely melts down. I don’t have time to do an elaborate setup so I bring out three sets of wedding china and place the boxes in the middle of the room. I’m sure she’ll be exhausted before she gets through half of them, but if she wants to fling every single piece at the wall, I’m here for it.

The first dish shatters before the door fully closes. I hustle up to the booth and throw on my ear protectors.

Last month, a women’s studies professor from Northern Michigan University brought her class in for extra credit. They came with their own playlist featuring Lizzo, Sia, and Mortimer Nyx. I turn it on and make it loud.

Annabelle hurls a teacup. It explodes against the wall in a clean, white starburst. A plate follows, then another. She reaches into the box and starts sorting, then seems to catch herself. She lets a champagne flute slip from her fingers and it disappears into fragments at her feet.

She’s yelling something I can’t quite make out. I turn down the music and pull one side of the ear protectors away.

“It’s not me!” she shouts every time another dish hits the wall. She says it over and over, sometimes mixing it up to say, “It was never me!” I crank the music and let her go.

Three songs in and she’s a glorious dervish of pure emotion. Her rage and grief have combined into an unnamed force as she screams and swears and throws. Fierce satisfaction settles in my chest as I watch her claim her anger and turn it into noise. Part of me wishes I was down there with her, to catch the sparks that spill over, to feel her fire brush against me, maybe even dare her to aim it my way.

And then, the turn.

I see it a lot, and it stabs me in the heart every time. It’s the moment my rage room customer has purged whatever demon brought them to my door, and pain has turned to glee.

Annabelle barks out a laugh as porcelain shards skitter across the floor. She whoops when a saucer hits just right, the sound ricocheting off the concrete. She twirls around the room, dancing with herself. She grabs a chipped plate in each hand and lets them fly.

She turns my way and lifts her head, and for the first time since she knocked on my door, there’s light in her face. I like seeing her take up space. I like watching her choose what breaks and when. I like seeing the anger leave her hands instead of settle in her bones.

I did that. My business. My rage room. I brought her to The Break and gave her this experience. This is why I do what I do.