I storm out of the room.
Six
I must be out of my mind.
That’s got to be it. There’s no other reason why I’d swear in Castle’s face, scream at his daughter, fight my own friends, and still be standing here at dawn, pressing this doorbell for the third time. It’s like I’maskingto be murdered. It’s like I want Warner to just punch me in the face or something. Even now, through the thick, dumb fog of my head, I know I shouldn’t be here. I know it’s not right.
But I’m either (a) too stupid, (b) too tired, (c) too angry, or (d) all of the above, to give a proper shit about their personal space or their privacy. And then, as if on cue, I hear his muffled, angry voice through the door.
“Please, love. Just ignore it.”
“What if something’s wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong,” he says. “It’s just Kenji.”
“Kenji?” I hear some kind of shuffle, and my heart picks up. J always comes through. Shealwayscomes through. “How do you know it’s Kenji?”
“Call it a wild guess,” Warner says.
I ring the doorbell again.
“Coming!”J. Finally.
“She’snotcoming,” Warner shouts. “Go away.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I shout back. “I want to talk to Juliette. Ella. Jella. Jello. Whatever.”
“Ella, love, please—let me kill him.”
I hear J laugh, which is sweet, actually, because it’s clear she thinks Warner’s joking. Me, on the other hand—I’m pretty sure he’s not.
Warner says something then, something I don’t hear. The room goes quiet, and, for a moment, I’m confused. And then I realize I’ve been bested. Warner probably got her back into bed.
Goddammit.
“But that’s exactly why I should answer the door,” I hear her say. More silence. Then rustling. A muted thud. “If he needs to talk to me this early in the morning, it must be important.”
Warner sighs so loudly I actually hear it through the wall.
I press the doorbell again.
A single, unintelligible cry.
“Hey,” I call out. “Seriously—someone open the door. I’m freezing my ass off out here.”
More angry mutters from Warner.
“I’ll be right there,” Jello shouts.
“What’s taking so long?” I ask.
“I’m trying to—” I hear her laugh, and then, in a soft, sweet voice clearly directed at someone else: “Aaron, please—I promise I’ll be right back.”
“J?”
“I’m trying to get dressed!”
“Oh.” I try really, really hard not to picture them both, undressed, in bed together, but somehow I can’t fight the image from materializing. “Okay, ew.”
