Isolde waits, biting her lip.
“Never mind,” I grunt. “It’s not important.”
She’s quiet for a second, poking at the marshmallow nightmare on the counter. “Is it about her?” she asks, voice softer.
I freeze. She means Dahlia, of course.
Isolde picks at a clump of sugar. “I heard she’s, like, a big deal. Like, bigger than your average mafia princess.”
“She’s just a girl,” I say. The lie is so thin it could snap.
Isolde catches it and smiles, but it’s a little sad. “Sure,” she says. “And you’re just a guy.”
I can’t tell her how it felt, pinning that girl to the wall. The way her skin went hot under my hand, the sound she made when I bit her neck. The way I wanted to break her and worship her at the same time.
I can’t tell anyone, because I don’t know what it means.
Isolde changes the subject. “You want to help me sabotage Rhett’s dinner? I was gonna put fish sauce in his coffee.”
I grunt, which is about as close to a yes as she’s going to get.
She tosses me a jar. The label says “anchovy paste” in someone’s terrible handwriting. I unscrew it and the stink fills the whole room, salty and rotten. I dip a finger in, smear it on the rim of Rhett’s mug, and set it back on the tray.
Isolde watches with approval. “Nice touch. He’ll never see it coming.”
I roll my eyes. “He probably will. You can smell this shit from a mile away.”
She shrugs, “I actually think I should heat this. It might fluff up.” Next thing I know, she’s shoving the glass pan into the microwave and slamming the door shut. “He needs to lighten up. I’ve been watching those prank couples and I’ve been pulling some on him to make him laugh. He’s been insufferable since he got that Board seat. Like, suddenly he’s Mr. Grumpy-pants. As if the rest of us didn’t have to eat shit just to survive.”
I grunt again, but she’s not wrong.
She sets the timer, then leans across the counter. Her eyes are sharp, blue and cold, but they’re kind, too. “You ever want to talkabout it,” she says, “or, you know, whatever, I’m here. I’m not scared of you.”
I snort. “You should be.”
She grins, “But I’m not. That’s why you like me.”
The microwave dings. She opens it and the sugar stuff has melted into a steaming, sticky slab. She stabs it with a knife and peels a chunk off, then slaps it onto a plate in front of me.
“Eat. It’ll heal your soul,” she says.
It burns my mouth and tastes like sweet acid. “What is this again?”
“Sugar, marshmallows, some sriracha for spice.”
“But why…”
“Because I’m bored, Bam, that’s why.” She takes a chunk, too, and chews, face twisted. “Oh god, that’s fucking horrible. I love it.”
We eat in silence, and for a minute, I feel almost normal. But my mind keeps flashing back toher, the way she looked at me after, the sound of her voice when she said my name.
It’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.
When I finish the bite, I stand, feeling the ache in my hands and the deeper ache in my chest.
“Where’s he at?”
“Office, like always.”
