Page 90 of The Dixon Rule

“Only if you wear your Speedo.”

“Deal.” He dips his head, distracted for a moment by his phone. It looks like he’s typing an entire essay.

“Stop texting your ex,” I taunt. “We’ve got work to do.”

He glances up, rolling his eyes. “It’s my dad.”

“You text your dad in multiple paragraphs?”

“Yeah. He’s my best friend. We talk about shit. Got a problem with that?”

I want to call him a dork, but I can’t deny it’s sort of heartwarming. My dad and I are close too, but we don’t engage in long, ongoing text conversations.

“Okay, let’s start.” I approach Shane, all business. “I assume you know the basic steps of the cha cha?”

He stares at me. “No. Why would you assume that?”

“You dated a dancer for four years.”

“She’s a ballerina. And just because she dances ballet doesn’t mean I know ballet. It’s not like I was going around doing pirouettes and jetés and—oh shit, I guess I do know some dance steps.”

I swallow a laugh. Shane’s funny sometimes, I’ll give him that. And he happens to look really fucking good in his rehearsal clothes. I told him to wear something more form-fitting, so he’s in a tight white T-shirt and black joggers. The pants are a thinner material than sweatpants, and although they’re not skin tight either, they do pull tight against his groin when he walks, outlining his generous penis. I still think about how it felt pressed against me when I was in his lap. Why is this thing so big? And—oh my god, something occurs to me. What if it’s even bigger? What if he only had a semi at the pool party? Like, he might have the largest penis of anyone on earth. It could be like twenty-five inches.

“Dixon.”

I snap out of it.

“What the hell’s the matter with you? Your face is redder than a tomato. Are you having an allergic reaction or something?”

Lovely. My face turned red thinking about Shane’s twenty-five-inch penis.

I shake myself out of it. I don’t know what I like less, blushing at the thought of Shane’s equipment or this recent spate of anxiety attacks because my ex-boyfriend smacked me in the face.

I believe the word is punched?

I grit my teeth and turn away from Shane so he doesn’t witness the dangerous mixture of rage and helplessness I know is flooding my eyes.

It’s like there are two Dianas inside me. One of them is furious. She’s saying, What is the matter with you? Go to the cops. Punish him. And the other one is cowering and crippled with shame, ordering me not to waste any more energy on this fucking catastrophe. The bruise has healed, and Percy is blocked from contacting me.

So really, everything is fine now.

It has to be fine.

“Let me finish setting up and then we can get started,” I say, keeping my back to Shane as I set up my tripod.

“Do we really have to film this?”

He sounds so upset that I spin around, needing to verify his expression. Sure enough, his unhappiness appears genuine. I falter then, as I realize I never asked for his consent.

“Ah, fuck.” Remorse flutters through me. “I guess we don’t have to film this if you really don’t want to.”

“I’m not going to embarrass myself in front of your gazillion followers.”

I crack a smile. “You know how many followers I have?”

“I creeped the account the other night.” He scowls at me. “Trial girlfriend.”

I snicker, but my humor fades when I realize what this means. “Look, I’m going to be honest. I make a bit of money by monetizing my posts.” I shrug awkwardly. “It helps pay for groceries and stuff. I don’t expect you to understand because I’m sure you don’t pay for anything—”

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