We let the eighties classics playlist run out on Grant’s phone, jumping and dancing and air guitar–ing around the room until we collapse on the floor, our backs against the foot of the bed.
I revel in the easy silence, thoughts bobbing around in the lazy river of my mind.
“I’m sorry I told you to go fuck yourself before,” I say.
Grant turns to me, still catching his breath. “You actually saidFuck you.”
“Well, I was probably thinkingGo fuck yourself.”
“Fair enough. I’m sorry I told you to grow up.”
After a minute, I say, “I don’t think I’m better than anyone. I don’t hate the people here.”
“I know you don’t,” he says. “You just hate romance.”
I huff out a sharp laugh. “I don’t hate romance. Didn’t you know how this all started? I wished for a romance book.” I snicker again at the memory. What a sweet little naive dumb baby I was back then, two weeks ago.
But Grant isn’t laughing. He’s looking at me curiously, which reminds me thatno, he didn’t know, because I was specifically trying not to tell him. Oh well. Too late now.
“You wanted to be in a romance novel?” He studies my face, like he’s reconfiguring his mental image of me. “So, Anna Matthews wasn’t an accident. You wished for one of her books on purpose.”
I flop back against the bed. “I love her romance novels. You always know it’s going to be okay. Love is right around the corner and it’s going to work out and it’s going to be adorable. I thought I could get in, get a happy little romance story with Jack, get out. Easy-peasy. Out of my system. And what did I get? Almost stabbed.” I laugh bitterly. “Some book boyfriend.”
I see the change in Grant’s face, the moment he finally understands how this all began. Why I was with Jack in the first place, who I thought he was. I don’t like it. He’s about to start judging me—or worse, pitying me. Then he bumps my knee.
“At least he wasn’t arealboyfriend,” he says. “I imagine it’d be a lot harder to move on from the whole murder thing otherwise.”
I do a loudpsshhhin his face. “Real boyfriends aren’t much better. All they do is eat your heart for breakfast and crap it out for lunch.”
He doesn’t even point out how that makes no sense. He is so nice. “Speaking from experience?”
It’s a question that would normally elicit a knee-jerkI don’t want to talk about itfrom me. But with Grant, I do want to talk. Maybe it’s the alcohol. Or maybe it’s just because he’s him.
“Nothing serious,” I say. “I had a dumb boyfriend in high school and I let him make me feelwayshittier than I should have.”
I’m prepared to move on, but Grant’s look gives me pause. He’s got those forehead crinkles—theI’m really listeningones.
“What happened there?” he asks.
“He was a master manipulator,” I say. “He tricked me into believing that he was in love with me.”
“How?”
“By telling me that he was in love with me.”
Grant winces. “Yeah. That’ll do it. Especially when you’re a teenager.”
I nod. “I really liked him. And I was so delighted to finally be someone’s girlfriend that I didn’t realize I was slowly becoming more like a potted plant or a decorative pillow. I used to sit in his basement and watch him play video games for hours on end, feeling like it was an honor that he wanted me to be there, when really I think he just didn’t know how to tell me to go away.”
“So how did you two finally split up?” Grant asks.
“We didn’t. We’re going on fifteen years of basement bliss.”
“Ha,” he says, not laughing. His eyes are fixed on me, patient.
I loose a breath. “He asked another girl to prom,” I say. “Instead of breaking up with me directly. He figured I’d just get the message that way so he wouldn’t have to actually dump me. Because, and I quote, he didn’t want to hurt my feelings.”
“God,” Grant says. “What a jackass.”
