Make sure he never touches her.
Atlas:
I’m not an idiot.
He adds a second picture, just to be a prick.
My future sister-in-law looks good in blue.
I don’t correct him.
Instead, I make a note to pick up another heavy bag.The one hanging in the corner of my office is tearing at the seams again.Between jobs, pretending helps.So does the ache.
I send Lindy one more message because I can’t talk myself out of it.
You don’t own him anything.Don’t forget to drink water.
Lindy Girl:
Editor’s note: I think you mean owe, not own.Also, that’s an oddly specific hydration reminder.Should I wave to the hidden camera or…?
Good catch, editor.Now sip.Then text me “done.”
The dots blink.Disappear.Blink again.
Lindy Girl:
Done.
Good girl.Now eat something green.
Lindy Girl:
You’re impossible.
I let the corner of my mouth lift, just enough to feel it.I put the phone face-down on the desk and line it up with the edge so it’s flush, exact, and then nudge it a hair off because perfection makes me itch.
Thirty minutes.I give myself that rule on the spot.No more texts for thirty.
Timer set.Knife beside the phone.Knuckles into the heavy bag until my shoulders burn and the old split on my ring finger opens again.When the timer barks, I pick the phone up.
Lindy Girl:
Do people call you Cass?
Rarely.Sometimes my brothers.
Lindy Girl:
Do you look like your name?
What would a Cassius look like?
Lindy Girl:
Tall.Dark hair you push back.Definitely scars you don’t talk about.
Nailed it.My turn.
