“Then you have to do it.”
She sits on the still-made bed next to mine and bites into a croissant. “How was last night?”
“A shit show.”
Her face falls. “I should have been there.”
I shake my head, letting her off the hook. “It’s not your fault; it’shis. I just— I really— He’s so—Whydo I keep giving him the opportunity to hurt me?” I fumble my way through the question, my once-strong command of the English language nowhere to be found.
Her mouth opens in a small O of surprise. “West?”
“Who else?”
“He hurt you?” Seeing my pointed stare, she amends her question. “Recently?” Daphne studies me curiously before straightening and brushing croissant crumbs off her lap. “What happened? Start at the beginning, and don’t leave anything out.”
I drop my head into my hands, unsure if I have the emotional wherewithal to recount the circumstances that led from the bar to soft serve covered in sprinkles to my knees around West’s waist and my dignity in tatters. “It was bad, and then it was…surprising, and then it washorrible.”
She squeezes my hand gently. “I know you hate exposition, but I do need more than that.”
“He wore a Fox Caldwell T-shirt to the bar.”
She sits back in surprise. “Huh.”
“I expected a little more righteous indignation.”
She shrugs. “Couldn’t that have been his way of, I don’t know, being supportive?”
“He was screwing with me.”
“Like you’re screwing with him?”
“Why are you defending him?”
“I’m not. What happened next?”
“As payback for the shirt, I read a passage from his book at the open mic.”
She wrinkles her nose. “How is that payback?”
“If you knew him, you’d understand.”
“If you say so.” Every syllable is heavy with skepticism. “Was that the surprising part?”
“No. That happened later.”
“Go on.”
“After we left the bar—”
Her eyes widen. “You left together?”
I nod. “After we left the bar, he— Well, no, if we’re being pedantic about it,Ikissedhim.” Daphne’s jaw drops. I hold my hands up before the questions building in her mind explode all over the room. “It was a horrible idea that I regretted immediately.”
She exhales, probably relieved that she won’t have to talk me through my insanity. “The kiss was bad?”
I groan inwardly. “I wish it was.”
“That’s a lot to process, Mars.”
