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“You’re extremely funny. Pissing my pants here.” “Mooooooooom.” Dylan cupped her mouth. “Row said a bad
halfway there already.” She squirted enough soap to bathe a baby whale and began washing the plate.
“Why would I want to jam a clam?” I stared at her, vaguely disturbed. “Is this a fucking TikTok challenge or something?”
You are both adults. You can do whatever you want.” “Not that I’m actually considering this.” I rubbed the bridge of my nose. Greatest fucking lie to ever be recorded on Earth, by the way. “But are you saying that if Cal and I hooked up tomorrow, you wouldn’t care?”
and knew I hated Cal like Hemingway hated a good drink.
Was I hallucinating now? Hoped not. I really couldn’t afford therapy.
He appeared to be a list of things: hot, ridiculous, charming, adorable, and completely out of place.
“Well?” Row glared at me in his Richard Simmons gear, running in place as the song continued playing. He looked supremely unhappy about the situation, tossing a still-lit cigarette butt on the ground in a huff. I bit down a laugh. “You gonna come down here and run, or what, Dot?”
The smile on my face was so big and wide, it threatened to split my cheeks.
“I’m out of shape.” “False. Your shape is fucking delicious. It’s the rest of you I have a problem with. Next.”
“Argh.” I hung my head between my shoulders, white-knuckling the windowsill. “Stop making sense and go back to offending people. It’s so much easier to shut you down that way.”
skin—“you know you want the entire town to see me running around looking like John Fonda.” “John Fonda?” “You know. The male Jane Fonda.”
Laughter fizzed in my chest, bubbling up my throat. “Baby, you wish you had her thighs.”
Our eyes met. He was smirking. That lopsided smile hit me like a rusty dagger straight into the heart.
My arms dangled by my side like two strings of overcooked pasta.
Then again, it wasn’t my fault he was tall, dark, handsome, and so inked he looked like a desk at detention.
“Speaking of Eurovision, are we ever going to address the fact that Australia partakes in the competition? I mean, it’s a Commonwealth country, but so are Singapore and Trinidad. Where do we draw the line?”
“Did too. Fair warning—I want much more than fucking this time around. I want dates. I want laughs. I want you to be honest with me. All the stuff that freaks you out for some reason. No strings attached. No commitment. Just fun. A perfect do-over.”
“So my last memory of us won’t be you almost vomiting because we had sex.” “I almost vomited because your sister caught us!” I shrieked. “Which is exactly why this won’t happen again. You’re high if you think I’m betraying her trust a second time around.”
“Come on, Bitchy. Put two and two together.” Bitchy. He’d called me Bitchy.
Bitchy. Bitchy. Bitchy.
“What mattered was that your skinny, anemic ass ate them. You were severely malnourished as a teen. Lived off chicken nuggets and chips.”
“Bitchy,” I said simply. “I’m Bitchy. And you are—” “Mac.” He completed the sentence, a mocking sneer finding his lips. “Feel cheated?”
“Wait, why did you search androphobia?” I narrowed my eyes. “You’re not afraid of men.” “I was afraid of a man.” His jawline turned stony. “Everyone is fighting their own demons, Dot.”
I blinked. One, two, five hundred times. He did? Row tilted his head upward, letting the rain
pound on his face, a dark, humorless chuckle escaping him. “Fine. Want the truth? Here’s the truth: No, I didn’t ‘have feelings’ for you.” He air-quoted the words with a sneer. “I was in love with you. Honest to fucking God, full-blown, snatch-my-heart-out-and-let-you-use-it-as-a-stress-ball in love with you.” He looked disgusted with himself for uttering each word. “And you didn’t give half a shit about me.”
“Maybe it’s your BO.” I threw another balled-up straw wrapper at him. “Maybe it’s your BS,” he retorted, tugging a napkin
“Please don’t be…” I trailed off, wincing. Rude? Disgusting? Overbearing? He stared at me expectedly. “You,” I finished, gulping. “Gotcha. I’ll try to be Kieran. If you see my tongue trapped in someone’s rectum, send help.” He gave me a once-over. “Unless it’s yours. That’s intentional.” Oh. My. God.
Row slipped out of the booth before I had the chance to combust into a trillion pieces.
where Dahlia was chewing gum in decibels more fitted to a T...
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Calm your tits, Cal, and while you’re at it, tell the rest of you to chill. It wasn’t like we could ever be something now. And for plenty of reasons:
He was a famous multimillionaire with one-point-seven million Instagram followers, a Netflix deal, and Michelin-starred restaurants, and I was so broke, I couldn’t afford to feed the rats that were squatting in my apartment.
I heard “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’” by Nancy Sinatra jamming through a nearby jukebox.
Dahlia. A bombshell of a woman in her fifties, with a strong Louisiana accent, big, bleached hair, a slim waist, and enough makeup to cover the state of Idaho. Dahlia was all about Elvis, Jesus, and horses. Her only fear was God. Even He, I suspected, couldn’t comment on her business and get out of it in one piece.
Ropes of dread tightened around my stomach. This didn’t seem like a conversation as much as it did a standoff.
directness, Dahlia choked on her bubblegum, slapping her coffin nails to her rib cage with a cough.
Her eyes quickly zipped over my body. “But see, Ambrose here’s another story. The way he’s been doin’ this town dirty—”
Okay, so I might’ve googled him one or three thousand times since he’d reentered my life. Sue me for being thorough. Serial killers came in every shape and form. You can never be too careful.
A few other locals I recognized from the town hall meeting were following my unfolding public meltdown.
“Let me tell you something, Dahl.” I pointed at her with a squint. “If he’s not welcome here, then neither am I. People are treating this man like he is subhuman. Vandalizing his new construction. Slashing his tires. Sending him hate mail—”
Desire twirled around my limbs like ivy, sending shivers down my spine. Crap. Keeping him out of my corduroy flared jeans was going to be a struggle. “I’d rather pass a kidney stone than sip the shitty coffee here anyway.” Row pinned Dahlia with a provocative look.
Dahlia, whose face was now the color of a crime scene,
“You didn’t seem to have any issues with my cuppa joe while growin’ up.” “I have since developed this thing called taste,” he...
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was going to be hard to make Grumpy McGrumpson here win people over.
The fog of desire made it hard for me to breathe.
“Nah.” He flashed a half-moon smirk. “And your skillet dish? Drier than fucking Lent month in Italy.”
“So is your customer service.” Row doubled down, head tilted to one side. Laughter bubbled in my chest. Row remained Row, even famous and rich.
“That’s your dream, Cal. Not mine.” He wormed out of Dahlia’s hold, throwing me a mischievous smirk. “I’d rather be hated for who I am than loved for who I’m not.” Of course he was a Kurt Cobain fan. He had the same grungy, don’t-give-a-fuck air about him.
Space. I needed it. All of it.
Three oceans between me and Calla Litvin would be ideal. Though I didn’t rule out helping Elon Musk populate Mars and relocating altogether. Why the fuck not? People would have to eat there too. And I was no stranger to shitholes. I had grown up in Staindrop, for Christ’s sake.
