Page 16 of Revenge Cake

Present Day

Leilani

Rage gets a bad rap. Not only does it feel so much better than fear, it’s also far more motivating. I’ve known all along how to aid my recovery in the long-term, but I had no desire to do it. Eating well, exercising, and daily meditation take effort, and I was perfectly content to wallow in a hazy Ativan fog of self-pity. I sought only immediate solutions to fear and loneliness, like junk food, mindless TV, or pathetic texts to Logan.

When my worst fear was finally realized and the anger settled in, the brain fog cleared. I now see a straight path to getting better, and all I have to do is move my feet one at a time. Who knew that revenge could do such wonders for mental health?

It’s been three days since the dreaded conversation with Logan, and my ire hasn’t cooled in the slightest. On the contrary, it’s nearly consumed me.

I’m reminded of those blissful weeks after we met, and how I thought about him constantly when he wasn’t around. I thought about running my fingers through his soft, wavy hair, caressing the smooth skin on his face, and kissing those full pink lips. I imagined his smile more than anything, and every single time I did, heat pooled in my belly.

Now, the thought of crushing that smile turns me on almost as much.

Granted, it hasn’t been a picnic. I’ve had a near constant headache since I flushed my pills down the toilet two days ago. I haven’t stopped sweating, my hands twitch, and even as I sit here my pulse races like I just got back from a run. The symptoms are almost identical to panic. And yet somehow, against all odds, I haven’t had a single attack.

Revenge has been my savior.

Revenge has given me distraction, purpose, and even joy.

I smile wickedly as I stare at my completed list.

It’s perfect. Worth the thirty minutes I spent on Pinterest learning how to make these calligraphy letters. I even wrote it on pink stationary to embrace femininity. This list, after all, is about the empowerment of women.

It’s about reclaiming my dignity.

I relish completing each item. Nothing, not even sex in a stairwell, could give me more pleasure.

And it’s not as if I wrote a Kill Bill Death List. None of the items on my list will cause a fuckboy like Logan Henderson any long-term damage. I have no reason to feel guilty, especially after everything he’s done to me.

I don’t ask for much.

It’s hardly a surprise that I want to look hot again when I’ve been dressing like a slob for the last three months (Item 1—Makeover). And wouldn’t it be nice for Logan to see this hot, self-possessed woman and wonder how his next crazy ex-girlfriend could ever live up? If I want that to happen I’ll have to find a way to see him before the break is over (Item 2—Lure him back), because thirty days is an eternity in fuckboy time. I could be fully replaced if I wait the full month. Obviously, I’ll need to seduce him (Item 3), which isn’t too out of line because he’s still technically my boyfriend. Finally, I want to be the one to deliver the breakup speech, preferably while he’s still inside me (Item 4).

Oh. And I want to make him cry (Item 5).

Notably, the meanest part of the list.

But, really, is that too big of an ask? Is it sadistic to want a small sign of regret after he abandoned me in my darkest hour?

CHAPTER 6

Past—The T-shirt

Logan

“Oh, Logan.” Armaan cringes. “This should be the funniest moment of my life, but it’s just too sad.”

“Mhmm,” I answer absently, lifting another letter patch from the pile. I squint as I try to peel off the thin plastic backing with my thumb, nearly breaking my nail before eventually getting a hold of it. “Fucking Michaels makes cheap shit,” I mumble as I place the “T” on the red fabric. I groan after placing the iron down, realizing I didn’t properly align the “T’ with the “S” to its left.

“You do realize that this is some really pathetic shit, right?” Armaan asks.

“Yes.”

Today is the Santa Barbara Women’s March, and Armaan and I were invited to come along with a large group of Lani and Brenna’s girlfriends. Lani told me to make a sign, “Either something feminist or anti-Trump,” she said. “Just make it clear that you’re a feminist.” And I decided to go out on a limb by making this T-shirt.

The last two months with her have been heavenly—near perfect, with one glaring exception. She still refuses to label our relationship. It’s a bizarrely stubborn move on her part considering she’s given in on everything else.

We have a whole routine now. I make her breakfast in the morning before she leaves for class, and she comes back in the evening to sit on my bed with her laptop and do homework. We even go to Farmer’s Market on Tuesday nights to get produce and her favorite oatmeal pancake mix, like we’re a fucking married couple. And when we wake up in the middle of the night with our limbs entangled, she doesn’t pull away, even though she still claims she doesn’t like cuddling.

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