Fuck It (Yama Yama)

I nod, my eyes fixed on his lips, as he moves into my office a little better.

“You okay? No snarky comeback or threatening glares?” he muses, those perfect lips of his twitching now.

I need a date with my vibrator.

My eyes dart up, and I swallow hard. “No. Yeah. Fine. I’ll be there.”

“No? Yeah?” he asks, mocking me.

Where is my fury? Not that I miss it. The fury brings on the tears once it gets too intense. But a little anger—non-tear anger—should totally be present after his mockery.

“I’ll be there,” I repeat. “Kasha sent a text asking to meet for lunch, so I’m about to head home for a couple of hours anyway.” Before he opens his mouth to remind me I have only an hour for lunch, I add, “Figured I’m due a little extra time, since I’ve been here so much lately.”

His lips slowly curl into a grin. “I wasn’t going to say anything about you taking extra time. Perfectly aware of how you’ve basically been living here. I’d rather you weren’t here so much. People are starting to worry I’m a total dictator if I’m making my girl work so hard.”

I hate blushing. It happens as much as the angry tears. It’s like my emotions are determined to fuck me over and expose me to the world as much as possible. Which sucks, since I’m a pretty damn private person.

“Funny,” I say with a bitter smile.

His grin only grows.

I’m running on just a few hours of sleep over the past few days, so I decide to ask a very important question. Or one that seems important to my very tired mind. “You’ve hit on every vagina in five states. Why did you never hit on me?”

His eyebrows go up, and he clears his throat, pushing my door shut in the process. I wasn’t aware that it was open.

“Firstly,” he says, holding up a finger, “contrary to popular belief, I didn’t take just anyone with a vagina—”

“Gretchen Carr,” I deadpan.

He grimaces. “Gretchen was actually great when she was faking being great. Most people don’t exactly show you who they really are. Ever. Everyone sees a different version of the same people, because half the time, no one really knows who the hell they are. They’re different based on who they’re around. Around me, Gretchen seemed like a broken girl with a lot of hope and desire to be better. Turns out, she was conniving and vindictive. Lesson learned.”

I start to speak, and he holds up his hand, stopping me.

“Moving on,” he says, narrowing his eyes, letting me know he’s not too proud of the Gretchen thing and wants to forget it.

I get that. I want to forget the twin musicians with matching penis tattoos and that wild college night when I tied them up and referred to them as Thing One and Thing Two. Not the greatest pet names, I suppose.

“And I never hit on you because you were Roman’s little sister,” he says, smirking. “Bro code and all that.”

I frown, pursing my lips. Roman didn’t want me dating anyone when I was in high school, or now, for that matter. But… “Bro code?”

“Are you really pissed at me because I didn’t hit on you?” he asks, deflecting, as his lips turn up in a taunting smile.

“No.” I shift awkwardly in my seat. “Just curious.”

He glances at his watch. “I need to get going. Glad I sated your curiosity.”

He starts to leave, and for some reason, I can’t let this go. “So if I hadn’t been Roman’s sister—”

“Then you would have probably ended up on the list of women who do have the right to hate me.” He looks over his shoulder at me with a flat expression. “Because we both know how shitty I am at all that.”

He leaves, and I groan. I should not feel sorry for a cheater. It’s his own fault, right?

And why do I care if he never hit on me?

Why do I care that he doesn’t seem interested now?

Why won’t Kasha stop texting me?

Getting up, I grab my purse and walk out, noticing how all the eyes dart in my direction with their judgy little looks. They look away just as quickly, and I roll my eyes.

I make the short drive home, finding Kasha’s car parked at the curb. Bobby Jo is already stalking toward me with a tray of cupcakes, which has me groaning. Not because of her, but because of why she’s coming.

She keeps up with my period better than I do.

Don’t. Ask.

“Sicily!” she says in a singsong voice. “You know what tomorrow is, don’t you?”

“I do now,” I say with a forced smile.

I’m pretty sure it’s weird for your neighbor to bring you cupcakes every month before you start your period. Pretty sure it’s weird for your neighbor to mark that day on her calendar at all.