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Fucking traitor. “So, what, everyone’s mad at me?
“Not mad.” Jackson struggles to keep a straight face. “Just disappointed.”
Snagging a half-eaten roasted carrot from my plate, I throw it at him; if he’s gonna treat me like his child, I’ll act like it. “You’re banned from my home. All of you are.”
“Might wanna change the locks then.” Ben shouts from the far end of the table, the twin baby boys cradled in his arms seeming to gurgle in agreement.
Fuck me, I can’t believe I ever thought living within easy access of all these fools was a good idea. To think I was so happy when I first signed the lease on this house, pre-injury. Buying a nice little home base in the same neighborhood as my best friends, my family, felt like something was cosmic aligning. And don’t get me wrong, for all my complaining, I do love it most of them. When it’s full of noise and chatter and so, so many children, I forget everything else happening in my life.
But then they leave. Silence settles. Thoughts roam wild. And I remember how much of a cruel joke this all seems. Like the universe was preemptively giving me a consolation prize before my life went to shit.
Thinking like that makes me feel grumpier than I should, makes me take the teasing more to heart. When I rise with a huff, there’s a collective groan of my name. Amelia grabs my wrist, giving me a shake. “Don’t sulk.”
“I’m notsulking. I just need a beer if I’m gonna listen to this all night.”
“You shouldn’t-”
“Drink. I know.” I shouldn’t drink, fuck, play baseball, or do anything remotely enjoyable. But one beer isn’t gonna make my arm fall off. Nor are the two I grab from the fridge. When the loud, tell-tale squeak of the back door gives away my escape plans, protests follow me out the house.
I should’ve known something else would too.
My ass barely hits the neatly-trimmed grass covering the far end of my backyard before the door opens again, heeled feet slapping against the concrete patio and giving away their owner. Rustling sounds as shoes are discarded and bare soles pad my way.
“You know,” Kate drawls as she flops down beside me, “we’re not twenty anymore. You can’t run away every time someone pisses you off.”
“Not now, Kate. Leave the head-shrinking to my therapist.”
“I think you need a new one.” Dr. Kate Acharya-Butcher challenges her title as my favorite psychologist by joining the Shit On Cass Day festivities. “Whoever you have isn’t doing a very good job.”
“I’m pretty sure poaching clients is unethical.”
“Wanting to kick my clients is unethical. Hence why you’re not one of them.”
I snort as I crack open my beer, downing half in one gulp and letting the cool, frothy liquid prepare me for the lecture I’m sure is coming. Because where there’s Kate, there’s a lecture.
“You know she wasn’t behind that story.”
“How, exactly, do I know that?”
“Because she told you.”
And people are so notorious for telling me the truth.
Following my lead, Kate steals my second beer, twisting the cap and taking a sip. “You ever think about why you’re so pissed?”
“Besides not being a fan of having my privacy invaded?”
“You actually liked this girl,” Kate provides an answer I didn’t ask for. “So it hurt a little more when you thought she sold you out.”
I don’t argue because yeah, I liked her. I don’t sleep with people I don’t actually like, not anymore. And okay, the little white lies I had to tell made me feel a little shittier than they normally would. And I was more disappointed than I should’ve been when, post-orgasm, she sent me on my way without offering her number or giving me time to ask for it. But it wasn’t that deep. We didn’t have some meaningful, life-altering encounter. We shot the shit about silly, inconsequential nonsense, and then we fucked.
And then she did what so many have done before and scampered off to the nearest reporter, an act that was only surprising because for once, I didn’t see it coming.
It’s happened before. It’ll probably happen again. So I don’t get why everyone is acting like this is different, like me being pissed is some big deal.
Chugging the rest of my drink, I wave Kate off. “I think that degree of yours is getting to your head.”
“I think fame is getting to yours,” she counters. “Not everyone is out to get you, Cassie.”
