Hurt flashes in Poem’s eyes, and I grimace, but don’t correct myself. I didn’t mean it the way she thinks I did, but I’m not willing to explain how Ididmean it. What would I even say?Sorry, kit, it’s just that I quite badly would like to ravage you, and I definitely can’t say the same about my dear Aunt Wendy.
The very thought of it makes me want to jump into an active volcano.
Or throw her into one. Either works.
“We’ll have this discussion right here,” Mom shuts me down. “Now, talk.”
I guess a little bit of privacy is too much to ask for when it comes to their precious Poem.I guessshe has them wrapped around her little finger, much the way she’s wrapped my heart around herself, too.
I wish I could blame them. I wish so badly that I could look at them and tell them that they’re wrong, that she’s not worth it, and that they should give that devotion to me instead.
Unfortunately, I can’t.
I can, however, blamePoemfor being so precious in the first place. It’s infuriating how lovable she is and how very impossible it is to resist the pull as she tugs at your heart. Even when she’s baiting me into a rage, I can’t help but admire her strength, fortitude, and good humor. She digs right into every instinct I have to protect and spoil, because a woman like her shouldn’t have to make use of that strength and fortitude if she doesn’t want to. A woman like her should be revered and adored, reaping the benefits of her princess face and her princess attitude by receiving full princess treatment.
And those are my thoughts as I actively attempt to withstand her allure. How much worse must her effect be when one welcomes it?
My parents never had a chance.
My jaw rocks as I acknowledge that Princess Poem will be staying for this conversation, despite my wishes. I try not to hold it against my parents. Iknowthey’re powerless to her charm, same as me.
And yet.
It sucks.
“That guy was a jerk,” I rumble finally. Understatement of the century. That guy said he was going to wait for Poem to get off work, meet her in the parking lot, and do things no woman could possibly want done to them in the backseat of his truck. He was disgusting and vile. Princesses donotget treated that way.Womendo not get treated that way.
I should’ve torn his entire head off, not just broken his nose.
“We don’thitpeople, Fox,” Dad says gently from across the table.
I turn my head, meeting his disappointed gaze head on. His hair, gray with age, falls over his forehead in a mirror of mine, and I wonder if I’ll look like that one day, scolding my own child for perceived wrongs.
I wonder if I’ll be in the right, or if I’ll be judging the acts of my child too quickly.
“We hit people like him,” I insist. “Harder than what I did.”
Poem snorts, and Mom huffs, but I keep my eyes locked on Dad. His thick, bushy brows furrow, then soften in understanding, gaze shooting to Mom, then Poem. “Ah,” he says. “Very good, then.”
My shoulders relax.
“Very good?” Mom asks. “What do you mean very good? He sent Greg Boggs to the hospital!”
My ears perk. “That guy was Greg Boggs?” Greg Boggs graduated a year before me. He played hockey for a local team until it earned him a scholarship and he left, never to be seen again. He didn’t even come back to town for Christmases, during college or after, much to his mother’s eternal heartbreak. I didn’t know he was back. “Why is Greg Boggs in town?”
“Is he related to Annie Boggs?” Poem asks. “She died last week. Maybe he’s here for the funeral.”
Mom scoffs. “Here for his aunt’s inheritance, more like. Greg’s a slimeball.”
“Then why do you care if I broke his nose?” I ask, throwing my hands up.
“It’s not about Greg,” Mom says. “It’s aboutdecorum.”
Decorum, I mouth, brows furrowed. “Mom, it’sGreg.”
“Beauty,” Dad cuts in, “leave the boy alone. He did right.”
Her jaw drops. “Did right? You got that from a couple of seconds of staring at each other?”
