Don’t bother. You’ve made it pretty clear I’m just another thing you don’t have time for.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. I’m being a complete dick. But I can’t stop the swirling emotions inside me right now.
Not when betrayal’s still bleeding at my heels and Jackson’s smirk is chewing holes through my composure.
What do you expect?
Oh, I don’t know… a little less brooding asshole, and a little more human decency?
A dry laugh escapes me. It’s not humor—it’s habit. I can practically hear the edge in her voice, even through text. The way she’s disappointed but covering it with sarcasm.
Because that’s what we do. We cover. We dodge. We hide behind clever words.
And right now, I just built a whole damn wall.
And shut her out behind it.
CHAPTER 18
MEAT CUTE
RORIE
Jeremy and I are going to a 3D printing art class. Tonight. 7PM. Be there or be artistically underdeveloped.
YASSSSS, join us! We’re making sculptures that speak to the soul. Mine might have abs. And a tail. TBD.
I don’t even want to IMAGINE what Jeremy’s soul sculpture looks like.
His will probably something with fangs and commitment issues.
You say that like it’s a bad thing. Art is pain. And also a little horny.
I’m staying in tonight. Catch you weirdos on the flip side.
Coward. Respectfully, J
You’re missing out. This is howgeniuses are born.
Have fun.
Muncan Food Corpsmells like smoked tradition and deli-born pride. Salt and spice drift in the air, clinging to walls, shelves, skin. One breath, and you know exactly where you are: somewhere sacred, savory, and unapologetically cured.
A slicer whirs. A lady hassles a worker over the wrong salami. I breathe it all in. Aromatherapy for the emotionally damaged.
I don’t come often, only when I’m in the mood to pretend I’m building a charcuterie board for guests I don’t have. Today is one of those days. An edible distraction is the thing that might shut up the mental monologue titled:Why Carl Suddenly Turned Into a Brooding, Dickhead.
I grab a wedge of manchego and drop it into my basket with unnecessary force, follow it with a sleeve of fig crackers I absolutely do not need. Self-control is not on the menu.
More people enter the store. I ignore them. I’m too busy inspecting a jar of imported mustard I’ll never open when I round the corner and stop cold.
Nolan “Why-the-Fuck-Are-You-in-My-Meat-Market”Rhodes stands in front of the glass case like it’s the Louvre, wearing shorts and a tshirt. The backward baseball cap is just cruel. Built biceps and veined forearms flex as he points at a cut of steak. I’m not proud of the sound my throat makes.
My rival looks wildly out of place and unfairly edible. Did he stumble into my quiet Queens meat temple just to mess with my blood pressure?
One hand slides casually in his pocket. The other holds a basket full of stuff. Of course he sees me at the exact moment I try to pivot and pretend I didn’t.
Nolan blinks, then grins when he sees me. A slow, toe-curling grin that should come with a smoke alarm and a fire extinguisher.
