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I pause for a minute, trying to summon a single fuck to give. Just when I think I’ve got one, it fizzles away into the frigid air.
Shawn Miller probably still breastfeeds from his mama when he goes home for Christmas.
For fuck’s sake. She’s twice our age, flirting with a student who has even less personality than me, and that’s saying something. I’m dryer than Dr. Bancroft’s scalp.
“How old are you, Ophelia?” I narrow my eyes at him. “Twenty-one.” One eyebrow raises like he’s surprised by this snippet of information. “Quite old.” “All right, DiCaprio, calm down.
Sure, she’s a loner, but she brings it on herself. She’s rude, and where’s her sense of fun? I get the impression the highlight of her day every day is doing Wordle, or finding a misshapen cornflake in the box, or something.
“What’s the matter? Done a Sudoku wrong?”
“How was it?” I give her a shy smile. “It was great. The big ones hurt, so…Alex is perfect.”
I’m going to die, and I haven’t even done today’s Wordle.
I tracked Ophelia’s phone to get her address. Stalkerish? Probably. But romantic? Maybe?
Maybe it’s a therapy conversation. Hey, Dr. Harwood, I have Daddy issues and I want legs as earmuffs, help.
Call me if anything happens at all.” “Things are happening all the time. I just ate a cracker. That just happened. Oh, and I’ve just taken a step forward and picked up the empty box. The box is in the recycling, so that just happened.”
“Ten points to Ophelia. You were a wreck the last time someone died.” I nod my agreement. “Character development.”
Manslaughter? Six out of ten. Enjoyed it—might not do it again, though.
