“That’ll get great press,” I mutter. “Good job.”
“I’m so sorry,” she says again.
Sure she is.
She hates—hated—fuck—my mustache. “It’ll grow back,” I hear my ego reply, “and it’ll be bigger and better than ever.”
I’m not looking at her while I head for the door, but she’s following me and I can practically feel the way she’s wincing.
I’ve spent maybe two hours with her over my entire life, and I can feel her wincing.
Awesome.
“It will,” she says hesitantly as I shove out of the door and onto the street.
Two fit men walking their dog both gasp and give me a wide berth.
“He’s not a serial killer,” Goldie calls after them. “He plays rugby. He can’t help his resting serial killer face.”
One of them—the one in a wool coat with a perfectly-tied plaid scarf—looks back at us. “Do you need help, ma’am?”
I roll my eyes and head in the direction of my flat—mycondo.
She says something else to the couple and then I hear her feet pounding on the pavement as she chases after me.
“Go away,” I say through clenched teeth.
I need to get home, survey the carnage, mourn, and then pick myself back up, and I need to do itwithoutwitnesses.
“I don’t think you should be alone right now.”
“I’mfine.”
“You look like you’re three seconds away from turning into the Incredible Hulk.”
“Resting serial killer face is like that.”
She whimpers.
It might be covering a laugh.
She, too, can fuck right off.
The entire Collins family can.
“Is your skin burnt?” she asks softly. “If your skin is burnt under the mustache?—”
“I’mfine.”
I didn’t realize I was on fire.
I thought thecheesewas still on fire.
But the worst part of this?
I don’t eat a lot of dairy, andI still wanted the bloody cheese.
And the cheese and veggie quesadillas. And the flan.
