My stomach clenches with anxiety. “What does he mean?”
He’s silent for a long time and then sighs. “I had to. I can’t ever stay, Glenn. I can’t. I need you not to want me. Hate me, even.”
My hand tightens on my phone, my eyes narrowing. What the fuck does that mean? So, he used some kind of magic on me to get away? Didn’t trust me enough to think I’d actually let him go? It’s insulting. Rude. Anger wells up inside me like a tidal wave.
“Yeah, I get it,” is all I can say, and I hear Arbor stammer. My chest clenches once more, my skin turning hot from frustration. Once again, he makes me feel that dichotomous pull, back and forth like a fucking ship in the sea. I don’t know which way is up.
Maybe it’s better if I just give up, swim for shore, and find someone easy, someone less complicated.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
“It’s no problem, Mr. Wren,” I bite out, my voice cold. I hear nothing but labored breathing on his end of the line. “I’ll see you at work.”
I hang up, tossing my phone on the couch and moving back into the kitchen. Something ugly sits in the pit of my stomach as I pull ingredients out from the fridge and cabinets, my movements a little too rough, pots and pans clanging on the counters and stove.
The Howlers do nothing to help, just sit back and watch, their eyes intent, their voices quiet when they speak to one another.
It’s making me angrier. Arbor leaving, my house being invaded, realizing he used magic to put me out so he could sneak off. Probably what he did the night of the Heat Hunt as well. He got me. And he got me good.
“You look like you need a drink,” Doc Martens pipes up. “Marlow makes a mean Rut and Rum.”
“Don’t tell him our fucking names, man,” Marlow, previously known as Mustache, says.
“Meh, he’s cool. I can tell,” Doc Martens replies before sweeping his hand to his chest. “I’m Vick, and that one over there in the tiny jean shorts is Corvin.”
I don’t even bother looking, just grunt.
“Go make him the drink, Mar, he’s heartbroken,” Vick says.
I huff. “I’m not heartbroken. Don’t give a fuck about any of it. Or him. Really don’t give a fuck about him.”
“Hesogives a fuck,” I hear one of them whisper, but don’t bother looking at who said it. Instead, I just whip up a red sauce in a pan, listening as they continue to whisper in low tones. Marlow is mixing my drink, exclaiming over the ice cubes I have in the freezer just for cocktails.
“Fucking cool, dude,” he murmurs. “They’re so round.”
A few minutes later, Marlow is handing me a Rut and Rum. It’s golden and fizzy, one of my large circular ice cubes sitting in the middle.
I put it to my lips and finish it in two gulps, setting it down with an angry clatter.
“Not bad,” I say. And I’m not even lying. It was a good drink.
“Make him another,” Vick commands. “And then tell us all about your problems, Ace. Get it off your chest.”
They set another drink before me. I finish it in two gulps once more.
I clench my jaw, about ready to hit them all over the head with a pan, when my mouth opens, and it all comes spilling out.
Our first meeting.
Working together.
Yesterday and today.
The way I feel used and discarded, like I’m not good enough.
They listen intently as I drain the noodles and turn off the stove. Then, I pull down some plates and hand them out.
“Go on. Dish up. You earned it listening to that shit,” I murmur, and Corvin slaps me on the back.
