Could I call an official ceasefire? What would that even look like?
I’m sorry, guys, for the fish, the ranch, and the Oreos. It doesn’t have a great ring to it.
Should I bake a cake and just leave it on the counter with “peace offering” written on a card propped next to it?
Should I just leave it and see what happens?
The latter is the lazy option, but sometimes lazy is good.
But as I pull up to the house, laziness and reconciliation fly out the window because there’s already another party going on. Music blares out of open windows so loudly I can almost hear the glass vibrate. Three scantily-clad cheerleader types are waiting at the door clutching bottles of wine. Danny opens the front door, greeting them before his eyes drift across the driveway. When he sees my car, a smile curls the corners of his mouth.
Fucker.
The thought of my nice, quiet, relaxing bath disappears in a puff of resentment and anger. Grabbing my bag with a level of violence it doesn’t deserve; I stomp up the driveway and into the heaving house.
Poor Mrs. Henderson must be even more pissed off than I am for all the cleanup this party will require. I consider storming into the den and raging but decide against it. The more rage I show, the more these assholes will take pleasure in my response.
Gray rock, I think to myself. Be as dull as a gray rock, and maybe they’ll lose interest in trying to rile me.
In my room, I shower and dress in comfortable joggers, and a “Girls just want to have fun” retro tee. Finding my headphones, I flick through TikTok for a while, the mind-numbing content serving a calming purpose. But eventually, my belly rumbles, and I know I’m going to have to venture downstairs to find food.
I should have bought something on my way home. It’s a rookie mistake and one I might regret, but I figure if I eat food from the party, I’ll be safe. The Carlton brothers are vindictive fuckers, but they wouldn’t tamper with food their friends were eating on the off chance I’d consume it too.
As I jog down the stairs, I can hear moans coming from one of the bedrooms. Moans that are similar to sounds an animal would make on the brink of death. For fuck’s sake. This is hell.
People are milling around in the hallway. I feel eyes trailing me as I head into the room where the music obliterates everyone’s eardrums. All the surfaces are littered with bottles, both full and empty. On the low table in the middle, boxes are overflowing with triangles of doughy pizza covered in processed meat.
Of course, they’d choose the grossest toppings.
Grabbing three slices, I look for a plate but instead find a napkin to rest them on. When I straighten my back with my haul of pizza, I find Tobias staring right at me. Anticipating that he’s going to demand I drop the pizza, I straighten my shoulder and raise my chin. His gaze moves to my left, and when I turn, I find River less than two feet away.
Where are the rest of them? Do they have me cornered?
My heart thuds ridiculously in my chest, but my rational thoughts tell me that nothing will happen. They’re not going to attack me. The music is too loud to make a scene, and anyway, they’re not going to win female hearts by acting like douchebags in front of their groupies.
I’m about to turn and flee with a confident posture and false bravado when I spot someone out of the corner of my eye.
Someone whose profile sends ice water cascading down my spine.
Kyle Christopher.
My breath rushes between my lips, and for a second, I fear my knees will buckle. I haven’t seen him for nearly three years. I haven’t seen him since he cornered me at a club and slid his hand inside my underwear without my consent.
I take a step back, and the hand holding the pizza drops in slow motion, the slices slip from my fingers and hit the floor at my feet. Another step back, and my calves hit the front of the couch, barring my retreat, and I panic. I panic because I don’t want him to see me. I don’t want Kyle Christopher to know where I live. I don’t want to see his smug knowing face as he remembers my trembling legs and frozen expression.
A hand touches my arm, and I flinch so violently that I swipe it away. “Cora,” Tobias says. “Are you okay?”
In a second, I turn into his chest, burying my face against him as sobs wrack my body. I can’t get ahold of myself. I can’t pull my frayed edges together.
“Fuck,” he says, wrapping his big, strong arms around me. He doesn’t ask any more questions. He just scoops me up and carries me out the room, swaying with every step as I breathe and breathe and breathe, trying to stuff back down all the terror that I’d buried away and never told a soul.