Nothing.
“Your skewers are ready,” the vendor declares, dumping them unceremoniously down on a paper plate in front of us, the skewers so fresh off the grill that you can still see the oil sizzling on the meat.
I grab one, biting the seasoned lamb between my frontteeth and sliding it slowly off the metal skewer, careful not to smudge my lipstick. It’s so hot that I can barely even taste it at first. “So,” I say, blowing on the rest before taking another bite. This time, I can’t miss the salt and cumin powder slathered over the meat, the flavor bursting on my tongue. “How many girlfriends have you had?”
If Ares is surprised by the direction of the conversation, or the directness of the question, he doesn’t let it show. “Definegirlfriend,” he says eventually.
My brows rise. “Many, then.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Either you’ve had too many, or they don’t count because they were only hookups.”
Another pause. “Definehookups.”
Annoyance prickles along my skin like a rash. “I feel like you’ve got enough firsthand experience to know what the definition is.”
His amusement seems to rise with my annoyance, an unfortunate pattern I’ve started to notice. He cocks his head. “And what makes you think that?”
“Because.” I wave at him with the skewer like it’s a mini dagger, the motion half threatening, pointing out the black wolf cut, the piercings, the noticeably lean stretch of his muscles beneath his shirt. His general aura, that dangerous, irresistible quality that’s made half the girls at school lose their minds over him. “Just look at you.”
“Thank you,” he says.
“That actually wasn’t a compliment.”
“No?”
“No,” I say firmly.
“Well, I’ve been with girls before,” he says at last with a shrug. “Nothing serious, though.”
I rip off the last piece of meat and let the skewer clatter onto the table. I’d thought that pushing an answer out of him would satisfy me, yet the rashlike sensation roots itself deeper, until even my insides itch with the knowledge. I’m not sure why it bothers me. It’s what I expected, and I’d be extremely skeptical if someone of his age and looks claimed to have zero romantic experience whatsoever. Really, I should be pressing for more information, whatever will help me figure out his type and tailor my approach. But there’s something nauseating about the prospect of being confronted with details. Imagining all the girls he’s kissed, or undressed, or done more with.
“What about you?” he asks, his tone as casual as mine had been. “How many boyfriends?”
I cross my legs underneath the table and lean back. “Let me think.”
“Are you counting?”
“Are you judging me?”
“No, not at all,” he says, leaning back too. “You can have as many boyfriends as you want.”
I feel another hot, irrational spike of rage. He sounds like he means it—like he truly couldn’t care less if I were to tell him that I’ve been involved with every single guy in this city.
The truth is that I’ve only had two semi-serious boyfriendsbefore. The first had claimed to have “lost feelings” for me over the course of a summer, when he was in Italy and I was in Shanghai, and the second one had cheated on me with some girl he’d danced with at a nightclub. Apparently he’d beensodrunk that night he didn’t even remember who she was.
“I’m so, so sorry, Chanel—I swear I didn’t mean to hurt you,”he’d whispered when I found out, his eyes solemn and heavy with remorse, his hands spread out pleadingly. He looked like he was auditioning for the lead in a tragic play.
I had burst out laughing. I laughed so hard that my ribs ached. “Oh my god. You think you’ve hurt me?” I let my gaze rove over him before emphasizing, with relish,“You?”
He’d flinched back as if the word were a gunshot, sounding right next to his ear. The remorse was gone, replaced in an instant with distress, rising fast in pink splotches up his neck. This wasn’t the script he had rehearsed with.
“Yeah, no, don’t you worry about that. The problem here isn’t that I’m heartbroken over you,”I’d said with a snort. “The problem is much bigger. See, youembarrassedme. Publicly.” I was already whipping out my phone to do damage control as I spoke. Luckily, I’d had the foresight not to post any pictures of his face on my accounts, but you could still see traces of his existence, proof to my followers that I was loved by a boy: a shadow splashed next to mine on the pavement, a second glass of Diet Pepsi on the dinner table, the flash of his shoulder at the park. I deleted all the evidence, leaving only the park post because my hair looked good in it.
When I glanced up again, he was staring at me like he wasseeing me for the first time. “I—I can’t believe that’s what you’re upset about,” he said at last.
“What else would I be upset about?” I’d asked coolly.
