Page 55 of The Dixon Rule

Shane stalks into the living room, his eyebrows drawn together in consternation. “That comment Priya made after the meeting about insensitive breakup texts. I’ve been thinking about it all day and I can’t make sense of it. I know I’ve joked about you turning the neighbors against me, but have you been talking shit about me? Like actual trash talk?”

“Trash talk? No. The truth? Yes.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means the way you handled the situation with Crystal was insensitive. And, frankly, really mean.”

He stares at me in confusion. “Crystal? This is about Crystal?”

I head for the kitchen to continue the task I was undertaking before Shane showed up at my door. I grab a bottle of tequila from the cabinet next to the sink and place it next to the blender.

Shane storms after me, his anger intensifying. I see it in the tight set of his shoulders. The way he curls the fingers of one hand over the edge of the white granite counter.

“How exactly did I handle that situation poorly?” Irritation and disbelief mingle in his expression.

“Are you kidding? I read your text, Lindley. It was harsh as fuck.”

“Are you kidding? Literally this morning I heard you telling your ex you’re not interested. How is what you did any different?”

“What I said to Percy came after months of him showing up and texting. I was harsh because he wasn’t getting the message. The first time I broke up with him, I didn’t just say, sorry, get lost, take care.”

Rolling my eyes, I pour strawberry margarita mix, tequila, and ice into the blender, and hit the power button. The ingredients crash into the blade, cubes flying around in the pitcher like tiny pieces of glass from a broken window. I hold the button for longer than necessary. It’s my passive-aggressive way of sticking it to Niall.

When the noise stops, Shane speaks again, a frown twisting his mouth. “That’s not what I said to her at all.”

“Bullshit. I read your message.”

He shakes his head, appearing even more annoyed. “So what you’re saying is, you read that entire message thread, but you’re only judging me based on the last one? Which, yes, admittedly, it was harsh, but she was saying some pretty nasty shit before that.”

“The last one?” I echo, wrinkling my forehead. I think back to the text exchange Crystal showed me. “There was only one message on that thread, Shane.”

“No, there were about twenty messages. Maybe more.”

Suspicion flickers through me. I don’t know who I’m feeling mistrustful of, Crystal or Shane. Noticing my expression, he curls his lips and pulls his phone from the pocket of his navy-blue sweatpants.

“What, you don’t believe me? Here. Read the damn thing for yourself.”

I see him scrolling up an alarming wall of text before he finally hands me his phone.

“It starts here,” he mutters. “Where she says it was the best date she’s ever had.”

As I start reading, a needle of guilt pricks at me. The more I read, the guiltier I feel.

Shane is actually nice in most of the messages. He lets her down easy. Even when she accuses him of leading her on, he handles it with tact and kindness.

In response, she… Oh boy. Crystal comes off a bit unhinged here. But who am I kidding? I can’t say I’ve never done the same. I think most women have a mortifying, borderline-stalker, pleading-text session in their romantic histories, and if not, I commend them for never succumbing to insecurity or desperation.

I can totally understand why Crystal deleted everything leading up to Shane’s final message. Her own messages go from sappy to pathetic to bitterly unattractive.

By the time Shane wrote, I’m not interested in seeing you again. Best of luck it’s clear he’d had enough of Crystal’s verbal abuse.

Also…

I look up from the screen. “You didn’t have sex?”

“No.” Indignation flashes in his expression. “Did she say we did?”

I try to recall her exact words. I think she used the phrase “hook-up,” but when I said I couldn’t believe he would treat her like that after having sex, she didn’t correct me.

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