That pesky littlebrat.
She left. I told her I wanted to talk to her—to explain myself and apologize—and she left.
Sometimes, I truly could throttle her.
I pull my phone out of my pocket, smiling tightly at Wolfe when he catches my eye from across the room where he manages the clean up of enough balloons to cover the entirety of the Pacific ocean. Between the balloon trash and plastic tablecloth trash, I’m pretty sure this party alone is fostering climate change for the next decade.
You okay?the planet hater mouths, brow furrowed.
My nose scrunches, and his face clears, wry amusement curling the edge of his lips.Poem?
Of course, Poem. It’s always Poem, raising my blood pressure and shortening my lifespan by years with every interaction we have, be it tantalizing or infuriating. I lost at least a decade earlier when she let me hold her against my chest, my hands rough on her waist while she leaned into me, embracing my touch.
My hands flex, remembering the feel of her waist beneath them.
But she didn’t just embrace it, shedefended itwhen Wolfe thought I was doing something harmful.
I scowl. As if Wolfe would have a single clue what Poem is or isn’t capable of taking. Sure, he’s known her longer—been friends with her longer—but I’m the one who’s with her day in and day out. I’m the one who knows what she’s actually like when she decides not to care what another person thinks about her.
I’m the one that she lets her guard down with enough to bring out her claws, meager though they may be.
And I’m the one she ignores when I tell her I want to apologize, because she’d rather nurse her anger than hear me out.
My shoulders drop.
AndWolfe’sthe one whose phone calls she answers right away. Because she’s never angry atWolfe.
I take a deep, calming breath as she sends me to voicemail for the second time. I leave a terse, “Call me back,” at the beep.
Then I stride across the sticky-with-juice bar floor, halting in front of my brother and presenting my empty hand for him to fill. “Let me use your phone.”
He blinks at me, holding open a trash bag for Mom to toss torn gift wrap into.
“Wolfe, may I please borrow your phone?” Mom intones with a severe frown.
I huff. “Wolfe, may I please borrow your phone?” I parrot, wiggling my fingers.
He shrugs, handing it over. “Sure. It might drop some glitter on you, though.”
Unconcerned, I accept the device, swiping quickly to the Ps in his phone.
She’s not there.
“You don’t have Poem’s number?” I grumble, a jolt of shameful pleasure shooting through me at the thought.Ihave Poem’s number.
“It’s under ‘Haiku,’” he says, and I do my best to ignore the slithering jealousy that wrests away my pleasure.
I find her, then scowl when the phone rings a measly two times before her voice trips over the line.
“What’s up, Wolfy? You need help with clean up after all?”
“I told you I wanted to talk,” I reply, fully ignoringWolfy, lest I tear myself apart.
A pause follows.
“Did you consider that I don’t want to talk?” she asks finally. “And that that was the reason I, one, left without saying anything and, two, didn’t answer your phone calls?”
“I considered it,” I answer. “And I decided it was childish and stupid.”
