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From: [emailprotected]
RE: Forgiveness RE: Space
If you want forgiveness, maybe don’t send me death threats in the shape of cookies.
Fitting email, by the way.
Sincerely,
This is fucking ridiculous.
PS: Yes.
PS, PS: How does your boyfriend feel about you stalking me?
Her reply comes moments later, and I can’t help wondering what it is she’s doing right now—if she’s in a campus library or the Starbucks downtown, if she’s thinking about getting fucked in the bathroom at St. Killarney’s the way I am as she types her responses, or if she’s just happy I’ve finally responded.
Are you really sure you want to go back down this road, Kelly?
My computer pings, her newest email showing up at the top of the thread.
From: [emailprotected]
RE: Forgiveness RE: Space RE: Friendship
Thought you’d enjoy the cookies, honestly. I know how you like things that you think are bad for you.
I’m not one of them, you know.
Bad for you, I mean.
I mean, I can be, if that’s something you’re into. But, you know, health-wise I’m really kind of perfect.
Sincerely,
Answer my phone call next time.
PS: Good to know.
PS, PS: Not my boyfriend.
PS, PS, PS: Would it be inappropriate to tell you I got myself off to thoughts of you fucking me in the church last night? Probably, but I’m not above coercing you into a cup of coffee.
Cursing under my breath, I pinch the bridge of my nose and spit my sunflower seeds into the trash can beside my desk, the image of Fiona playing with her sweet little cunt almost enough to make me crack. It’s ridiculous that she knows how to play me.
Ridiculous that I’m tempted to take her up on her offer, all things considered.
So much for willpower.
Shutting down my computer, I grab my coat off the back of my chair and sling it over my shoulders, locking up my office as I exit the room. Craig’s light in his office is still burning bright, and for a second, I think about checking in and seeing if he’s pulling another late night, but I choose not to, not wanting to pry where it’s none of my business.
The man can deal with the loss of the love of his life however he wants, I suppose.
I know I am.
* * *
Riley’s splayed out on the couch when I get home, Dottie having picked her up from KTP and dropped her off with a stockpot full of soup, as is the Monday tradition. She flips through the categories on Netflix aimlessly, not stopping long enough to actually note what any titles are.
