“Why would you do this?” I whimper. “Make me think you’re dead?”
“The content, man.”
“Don’t fucking talk to her.” McCarthy tucks me protectively to his side.
“This your fucking boyfriend?” Brock asks.
McCarthy’s voice is dangerously flat. “No.”
Mindful of that afternoon’s fight that I still have yet to do damage control for, I dig my nails into McCarthy’s arm, the muscle hard under my fingers. The twitch of his jaw is the only acknowledgement.
“We need to go,” I say, begging weakly.
As much as I’m sure Hannah will hate me for not letting McCarthy loose on my ex and his juvenile friends, I can’t clean up two PR messes today.
“Please, McCarthy, just… I can’t.” The tears run down my face. “Please.”
Way back in the history of my mom’s revolving door of boyfriends, one “new dad” with a balding mullet had drunkenly accused twelve-year-old me of using tears to manipulate men.
Right now, I don’t care if the tears are enough to prompt McCarthy to grab my things and push through the still-snickering crowd of people I had thought were my friends, had thought were my family.
I take a shuddering gasp of cold, wet air when we’re out into the drizzly evening.
My legs finally working, I pry his hands off me and rush to the car, Truman loping after me.
I need to put on his raincoat. I don’t want his long hair to mat, except I can’t get the stupid electronic key to work and I don’t know where my umbrella is and my freaking ex-fiancé is alive, not dead.
A large hand encases mine, takes the key, and unlocks the door.
“Thanks,” I mumble, teeth chattering and snot running down my face. “I’ll, um, take you back to the office.”
“Jenna…”
“I need to figure out what to do about that fight.”
“I’ll call a driver.”
“No, I need to get the hell out of here. If I can just get the key in the fucking—” Finally, the car starts.
“Jenna, what…”
Is that pity on his face?
No. He’s just gearing up to mock me.
“Just fuck off, McCarthy.”
His face is stone at the venom in my voice.
“We’re not friends,” I say. “I don’t fucking like you. I tolerate you, becausethat’s my job. I don’t want to listen to any more of your shit today, understand? It was already going to be a terrible day, and you made it unbearable.”
“Message received.”
My shoulders are so tight I think my spine is going to snap.
Numbly, I grip the steering wheel.
McCarthy’s seat belt clicks.
