Still, I don’t move…until it comes again and again andagain.
I drag myself off the couch, stomping toward the door and swinging it open with a thunderous scowlpinching my mouth. It falls away when I come face to face with Marisa’s glower—an expression that puts mine to shame.
She doesn’t say a word, barging inside and shoulder-checking me out of the way as she heads for the kitchen. I watch her go, trying to work up the energy for whatever the fuck this is.
I blow out a breath, slowly closing the front door and following her.
“Good morning, Marisa,” I greet pointedly. “What can I do for you?”
Her bag is already hanging off a stool, and the coffee machine is purring away as she digs through the cabinet next to it. She pulls out two mugs before going for the creamer in the fridge.
“Sure,” I grumble. “Make yourself at home.”
Marisa doesn’t answer, her focus on making our drinks. I shift my weight impatiently as she ignores me until she slides a mug toward me. I stare down at it, eyes tracing over the words,Shh, don’t talk until my cup is empty. Marisa’s mug is the exact same style—black with white lettering—but hers says,I’m not arguing. I’m just explaining why I’m right.
My throat works on a swallow.
The mugs are Charlie’s. Another of her collections—one she started after she moved in. There’s a stall at the market that sells them. She bought one a month, always looking for one that made her smile, knowing she had to limit herself because there was only so much room in the cabinet.
I didn’t realize she left them behind, and seeing them gives her absence a more permanent feel. I slide my hands into the pockets of my sweats, eyes never leaving those stupid cups.
Did Charlie leave them on purpose?
Is this her way of erasing another memory ofus?
I look up, catching the way Marisa watches me carefully. “Jack messaged me a couple of days ago,” she says after a moment. “He wasn’t going to, but apparently, he felt guilty about what went down last week.”
My chest goes tight, and I cross my arms over my chest defensively. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Marisa lifts a blonde brow, her nose wrinkling. She looks around the kitchen, asking, “Where’s Charlie, then?”
I press my lips into a tight line, looking away from her. It’s not enough of an answer for Marisa, going off the sigh she lets loose.
“Dillonnnn.” She drags out my name like I’m an unruly child. “Where. is. Charlie?”
I drop my chin to my chest, my answer an inaudible mumble, and Marisa huffs loudly.
“For Christ’s sake, Dillon, could you?—”
“She’sgone, okay?” I blurt furiously. “Charlie moved out on Saturday. After…” I trail off, and her expression shifts into something sympathetic. But I cloak myself in anger, refusing to see it, the sensation eerily similar to what happened when I lost it at Charlie. “She took off that night and wouldn’t take my calls or my messages. I didn’t know if she was hurt or what. Turns out, she was just holed up with herBarrett.” Bitterness and anger coat my tongue as I sneer out his name. “She came around the next morning, with him following her like a little puppy, and she just…” I shrug, the venom drying up as fast as it came. “She just left.” I flick a bleak look up at Marisa, seeing that her expression hasn’t changed. “She ended us, and now she won’t talk to me.”
She makes a thoughtful noise, tapping her fingers against her mug. “I had coffee with her. Three days ago.”
The words drop like a bombbetween us. My eyes widen as I stand up straight, tension coiling in my gut. “What?You did? You guys…You’ve never…” I swallow roughly, asking what I really want to know. “Is she okay?”
Marisa lets out an unamused laugh, her eyes narrowed into slits. “No.No, Dillon. Charlie is not okay. She’s absolutely destroyed. And can you blame her?”
I stiffen, my shoulders hunching up to my ears. There’s no way she had anything good to say about me. “That’s just one side of it,” I snap defensively. “Herside.”
Marisa watches me carefully, tilting her head to the side, her white-blonde hair brushing her shoulders. “Don’t you think she deserves to tell her side?”
The denial is on my lips, but I shut my mouth at the last moment, sensing the hole that’s only growing deeper around me. I rub a palm against my chest, trying to ease the agitation, trying to understand why I’m reacting like such an asshole.
Fuck.
Marisa sighs, the sound full of frustration and weariness. “Do you like Bliss?” she asks quietly, startling me with the change in topic. “As a person, I mean. Jack…He has his moments, I guess. And both Corey and Amber are just—” She shakes her head, unwilling to say anything bad about them. That’s always been Marisa; nice to her core, even when people don’t deserve it.
She’s not like me. The conversation I had with Jack flows into my mind, his accusation that I just wearniceas a costume—a pretense to hide what’s underneath. Shame rushes through my chest as I think about every word that spilled out around the table that night, the way Amber and Bliss laughed, and the way I just let it wash over me as if none of it mattered.
