I roll my eyes.
I cross my arms.
I tap my foot.
“I hate you.”
My hands are already moving.
“What do you need?”
She sniffles, wiping her eyes on the sleeves Iexplicitlytold her not to ruin.
Then, in a cracked, post-cry voice?—
“Hoodlum Shit.”
My head drops,
dead center of my shoulders,
staring at her.
Afuck nofrom head to toe.
I hold up a finger. “Don’t.”
Her stare deepens. “What?”
My glare locks with hers.
“We swore we’d never go back.”
“I know.”
“Celie, we promised.” I lean in, heat rising under my skin. “We already slipped up once. We slashed an innocent tire! And I made a vow. A literal, blood-pact-on-a-cocktail-napkin vow. Do you understand what you’re asking me to do right now?”
She nods.
I pinch the bridge of my nose to stop the oncoming aneurysm. “No. No, absolutely not. We left the game.
“Hoodrat & Hooligan? Retired.
“Jerseys? Hung.
“Burner phones? Tossed into the Hudson.
“We promised we were gonna be mature, responsible adult women with taxes and boundaries and skincare routines. We?—”
Her face turns tragic.
The sad-eyed pout special.
Bronx edition.
How does she always make me the asshole for thinking logically?
But maybe it’s what I need right now, too.
