“So he isn’t who you texted me you were taking home? And that wasn’t him creeping out of our apartment last night as I was getting in?” My neck heats. That heat climbs, hits my cheeks, my ears. “The outcome of your meddling cannot be used to counteract the treachery of the meddling itself.” “Thank you, Orok,” he badly mimics my voice. “I got laid because of you, Orok. You’re the best wingman ever, Orok.”
