We should talk
Why are you ignoring me
Bitch
“Brandon?” I ask, wrinkling my nose.
“Yeah. He got a new number. Again.” She deletes the thread with shaking fingers, but not before I see more:
I saw you at the coffee shop yesterday. You looked good
Answer me
You can’t avoid me forever you fucking slut
“Yas… ”
“It’s been three months.” Her voice is too polished, which is a dead giveaway that she’s trying not to cry in public. “I’ve blocked, like, five different numbers, but it doesn’t matter. He just gets new ones. Last night—” She stops and slam dunks a package of chicken thighs into the cart. “Last night, I was prettysure he followed me on the train, so I got off three stops early and hid in a Walgreens for half an hour.”
The fluorescent lights suddenly feel too bright. “That’s stalking, Yas.”
“I know.” She laughs too squeakily. “But what am I supposed to do? The cops won’t care until something actually happens. I can’t afford to move. I definitely can’t change jobs. I just have to… exist while he does this.”
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“Because you’re literally going blind, El. You have actual problems. This is just… ” She waves her hand vaguely. “Drama.”
“Stop.” I take her hand in mine. “This isn’t ‘drama.’ This is criminal. And you’re staying at my place tonight. I don’t care if we have to sleep in shifts—you’re not going home alone.”
She starts to argue, but I press a finger to her lips. “Save your breath, ‘cause I don’t even wanna hear it. I love you and if he comes for us, I’m gonna turn him into a shish-kabob, okay? After meal prep, we’re filing a police report and a restraining order. But first…” I lead her into the bakery, where I grab a carton of sprinkle sugar cookies and add them to our otherwise healthy smorgasbord. “We deserve a sweet treat. And I’m maybe gonna try to set you up with someone who isn’t a walking red flag.”
“Oh, God, please don’t. I can’t handle your matchmaking energy right now.”
“I make no promises.”
We finish shopping in relative normalcy—if normalcy includes Yasmin jumping every time someone’s cart comes too close and me mentally cataloging every exit in case Brandon somehowappears. The fact that I’m even thinking that way makes me want to find him and introduce his face to my knee. Repeatedly.
I wasn’t a fan of Brandon the first time we met. We got dinner at a little bistro in River North, the three of us, and he took zero pains to hide the fact that he was checking out the asses of every waitress who walked past. But Yas seemed to like him, so I swallowed my opinions.
Even when they started dating, I had to shut up more often than I would’ve liked. He made Yas cry a bit too often and didn’t show up for her important things often enough. It wasn’t until the break-up that I finally ‘fessed up about how I felt.
Turns out I was right the whole time. Brandon was a Derek. And if there’s one thing I know in this world, it’s how to spot a Derek from a mile away.
Back at my apartment, we fall into our meal-prep rhythm. Vegetables get washed, dried, chopped. The rice cooker is doing its thing. Three pans are sizzling on my ancient stove that only has two working burners, so we have to rotate, and all the while,The Golden Bachelorplays on my TV.
It takes Yasmin until the carrots are almost roasted to bring up the subject I was really hoping to avoid.
“So. Let’s talk about these oysters.”
I focus very hard on my knife work. “Don’t start.”
“Start? Start what? Who’s starting? I’m not starting anything. I’m simply making a completely neutral observation that Bastian Hale, notorious emotional void and corporate Satan, took you out on the town to hand-feed you a known aphrodisiac.”
“We were already out, and we were hungry, so really, it was just convenient?—”
“And then drove you to your mom’s place and waited in the hallway like some kind of… ” She searches for words. “Brooding guardian angel. Which is big boyfriend energy, by the way.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
