I’m at a loss for words. I can’t believe him. I storm off in a huff, my breakfast half-eaten, and head to my room.
I vow revenge. I have no clue how I will go about it exactly, but revenge will be mine. I pace around my room. Abby and Baxter eye me curiously, ears perked up. I’m at a loss.
I decide to just ignore him and go about with my day. My best ideas always come to me when my hands and mind are busy. A good idea is elusive — the more you try to reach it, the further away from you it will go.
I dig out the painting supplies Gabbie lent me and set up on the porch. The puppies are excited and curious.
I’m all set up at the small bistro table on the porch. I’ve brought the flowers from the dining room, and staged them as a still-life subject. The petals and leaves are starting to dry and are brown at the edges. I start off with a sketch in pencil, just as Gabbie showed me in the one lesson she gave me weeks ago.
Jacob swoops in, wearing his sneakers, running shorts, and a tight white t-shirt. I try not to look at him. “Going out for a run,” he says. “Beautiful day. Going to head to the café on the beach for lunch. You want me to bring you back anything?”
I glare at him, just so he knows that we’re not good.
“I’ll take that as a ‘no,’” he says, and is out the screen door in a flash.
I’ve been workingon my ‘masterpiece’ for over an hour. And it’s not a masterpiece at all. It plain sucks — it looks like something a nine-year old would do. Actually I’m sure a lot of nine-year olds could do much better. I don’t understand — Gabbie makes it look so easy. With a few strokes of her brush, she creates a beautiful scene so effortlessly.
Now I’m officially depressed. I lean back into my chair and stare out at the view — it’s beautiful. The waves are crashing, the lake deserted, save for a seagull or two. The small porch is quaint; wicker chairs, a porch swing, and lots of plants on the floor and hanging overhead, mostly herbs from the looks of it; chives, parsley, dill. I stare at the Carolina Reaper Ming gave me. I left it on the screen window ledge.
And it hits me.
I bounce off my chair, grab it, and dash to the kitchen where I pull a knife from the drawer. I cut straight though the pepper, careful not to get any of the juices on my skin or in my eyes. I then dash to Jacob’s room. It’s tidy as always. I carefully slide the first dresser drawer open, and there they are: socks and boxers, rolled up and folded meticulously, and his jar of hand cream. He’s so predictable.
I grab the top boxers, and smile at the sight of them; red with hearts all over them, a gift from yours truly for Valentine’s Day years ago. I furiously rub the pepper all over the insides, and carefully fold them again and set them back exactly as they were. I quietly close the drawer and tiptoe out of his room. I throw the pepper in the trash and wash my hands carefully.
I smile as I take a seat back at my art station. The puppies stare at me curiously, knowing I’m up to something. Dogs are clever that way. I put the finishing touches on my painting, despite it being hopeless. I was planning to hang my finished work somewhere in my condo, but that plan’s officially out the window.
Jacob is all smiles when he gets back. “How’s it going?” he asks, his usual greeting.
“Great,” I say. “We’re going for a walk on the beach. How was the café?”
“It was decent. I had a roast beef sandwich. I’m just going to grab a shower. I’m sweating like a pig.”
I smile, and he eyes me suspiciously.
“Have a good one,” I call out before heading out.
We’re sittingon the porch again, and I can barely contain my grin when Jacob shuffles around in his wicker chair. He’s trying to focus on his book but he’s distracted. He keeps rubbing at his crotch. He might not know what’s going on, but I do.
“Got ants in your pants?” I tease.
He scowls and shifts in his seat again. “My crotch is on fire.”
I laugh out loud. That’s Jacob for you — he’ll tell you it like it is.
“Seriously, I don’t know what’s wrong,” he says, concerned. “I was fine when I went for my run, and at the café…”
I study him for a beat. “Interesting…”
His eyes grow wide. “What?”
“Maybe you have an STD,” I deadpan.
“No way.”
“How can you be so sure?” I ask. “Been sleeping around?”
He shakes his head. “Well, If I have one, so do you.”
