Then at the door, which Jake is banging on again.
Then back at me.
The apartment door locks automatically when it’s shut, but I flip the deadbolt and add the chain lock too.
Just in case.
“It’s a man problem,” she says.
“Testosterone is the worst,” I agree.
We both look at Daphne, who’s wandered back into the kitchen.
She has her mischief face on, and it gets more mischievous as Jake pounds on the door again. “You know it’s inevitable, Bea,” he yells. “You know you want me. You know last night was you trying to get back with me. Don’t play hard to get. This is your last chance.”
“No hot coffee,” I say to Daphne the same time Margot says, “If you’re planning to kick him in the family jewels, you get one shot.”
“I was just thinking I’ll take the building super some donuts tomorrow. And get the hallway security footage. And maybe anonymously send it to the Athena’s Rest Business Association. And also, Bea, I think you should go see Simon.”
“I am not going to see Simon. He helped me do what I wanted to do, and clearly”—I gesture to the door, which gives one more shake as Jake hits it—“it worked.”
Margot’s frowning. “If he bangs on that door one more time, I’m calling the police.”
I glance at Daphne.
She grins. “Worked so well that you should do it again.”
But that’s the thing.
I don’t want to see Simon just to get back at Jake.
Now I want to see Simon for the simple joy of seeing Simon, when I suspect Simon never wants to see me again.
“Just think about it, Bea,” Daphne says. “Just think about it.”
I’ll think about it.
And I won’t do anything about it.
Because I’ve done enough to Simon, and this one is mine to handle.
14
IF I’D WANTED A SHIT SANDWICH, I’D HAVE ORDERED ONE
Simon
Someone is stickingan ice pick in my skull and shining a spotlight directly into my eyeballs and someone else has loaded my stomach with lit dynamite and I am never, ever, ever,evertouching bubbly again in my natural lifetime.
“Don’t let them toast me when I die,” I whimper.
I would prefer to never touch bubbly in my natural afterlife either.
“Epic date?” the mother of my children says above me. “Or epic after-date?”
“I—”
Bloody hell.
