“And my family just… let you come find me?”
She looks towards the dining room, incredulous.
“After the way your brother broke my sister’s heart? Your family has to do as we say.”
She snorts. “Broke her heart? They never met.”
“I know. I’m just fucking with you. Now sit down. Until the color in your face gets back to normal.”
I can tell she wants to fight me some more, but she looks really sick, and I question whether I’m going to be cleaning her vomit off of me this evening—I’m sure if she puked, she’d aim for me. But she surprises me and slides down to the floor.
Good girl.
She rests her elbows on her legs and her head in her hands, pretending I’m not there as I take a seat on the floor across from her.
“What are you, a vegetarian or something?”
She huffs. “I’m reacting to that disgusting story your father told.”
“Marco is not my father,” I growl. I loathe people referring to him as that. He took me in but does not deserve the title. Then I ponder what she’s telling me, and I can’t help but chuckle. She grew up in a connected family and freaks out about someone speaking crassly about body disposal? “That really got to you that much? I’m sure your family does the same. Dissolve a body into red mush and toss it into Lake Michigan.”
Her hands ball up, clutching her dress. I can feel the tension in her body from here, and my words made her face turn another octave paler. I can’t fathom how squeamish she is.
“It’s a phobia,” she growls. “And wrong side of the state.”
“What?”
“Lake Michigan is on the western side of the state, bordering Wisconsin. My family aren’t animals like yours, so I’m sure we don’t do that, but if we did, it would get dumped into Lake St. Clair.”
“Great. Thanks for the geography lesson.”
“Why are you such an asshole!? What could I have possibly done to you in this short amount of time?” She looks uncomfortable towards the dining room, looking less sick at least.
“Jumping on the hood of my car like a Neanderthal isn’t the best first impression.”
She rolls her eyes, looking at her cuticles, and then she snaps up. “Did you know it was me?”
I nod.
“How?”
“Research.” I shrug. “You’ve left quite a trail on the internet. Doing your little poses with your friends, showing off how great of a person you are, pictures of you in the gym in only a sportsbra.” I growl the last few words, wondering why that last part bothers me so much.
“So, what? You decided you hated me from Instagram?”
I nod. That pretty much sums it up. Also, there’s that tidbit of information that we’re planning on murdering her grandfather and brother—that’s another reason I’m not getting too attached, but I can’t let that slip.
I can tell from her facial expression that her mind is going a mile a minute trying to figure out what I hate about her. I decide to help her out. “You come off as spoiled in your posts.”
“Spoiled?” She points up at the ceiling. “You live here, right? In this castle?”
“My family has more money than yours. But only you had the pampered life.”
“Pampered.” She snorts. “You’re crazy, you know that? Judging someone that much from social media? You know that stuff is only a highlight reel.” She stands up, and I feel less nervous about her collapsing or projectile vomiting; she seems to have healed from Marco’s story. Being angry with me must be a pleasant distraction. “Or maybe you don’t know that. Did you even grow up with the internet or are you too old?”
It seems like she’s genuinely asking. Which is much more offensive than if she were trying to insult me.
“No, I barely had electricity,” I answer sarcastically.
