Page 42 of Revenge Cake

Unable to comment, I stare at her dumbly for several seconds, taking in her appearance.

Her long hair hangs in damp waves down her back. She’s wearing a baggy T-shirt that just barely covers her butt, exposing her long, lean legs, and even though I’ve spent hours memorizing every inch of her body, I’m overwhelmed with the curiosity of what I would find if I lifted up that black material. Is she wearing shorts? Underwear? Nothing?

She doesn’t look like she’s wearing makeup, but somehow her face looks bright. Bright and healthy. It occurs to me that I didn’t take in much of her appearance earlier today, besides her fancy dress and the douchebag standing next to her.

Frowning, I stare at her head. “Did you do something to your hair?”

“I washed it.” She smiles, and even though it’s just a small quirk of the lips, the sight of it freezes me in place. I can barely take in a breath. I haven’t seen that smile in months.

And it turns out that part of this ache in my chest is from missing her.

Missing her even when she’s been in the same room.

The old Leilani went somewhere else when she started taking Ativan, somewhere faraway. I was angry with her for it, yes, but also sad. And I didn’t recognize the sadness until now as I stand here looking at the old Leilani, smiling as if these last few miserable months never happened. As if she only left for a weekend retreat and came back rested and fresh.

I come back to earth when I see that smile falter, a notch forming between her brows. “What did you want to talk about?”

Recalling myself, I look away from her. “Dean,” I say sternly.

“He’s here, so keep your voice down.” She quirks her head toward the hallway.

Horror grips me for an agonizing moment before I realize that she’s gesturing in the direction of Brenna’s room.

Of course. He’s here because he’s visiting Brenna. I exhale in relief, but my ire only cools for a moment when my attention is drawn once again to her exposed legs. “Why are you standing in the kitchen in your underwear if Dean is here?”

She lifts the bottom of her T-shirt and exposes her hips. “I’m wearing volley ball shorts,” she says, revealing the tight black shorts.

She’s looking at me as if I’ve lost my god damn mind, and for the first time, I question my impetuosity in coming here.

Still, I can’t leave here without saying my piece. “I don’t feel good about you hanging out with Dean.”

She narrows her eyes. “What do you expect me to do? Send him home? Tell him he can’t visit Brenna?”

Irritated by her lack of remorse, I take a fortifying breath. “Okay, fine. You can’t help that he’s here, but I’d feel better if you didn’t hang out alone with him.”

“We’re not hanging out alone.”

I frown. “Where’s Brenna?”

“Grocery shopping with Mia.”

I’m about to ask why Dean didn’t go with her, when a hallway door opens and Lani turns away from me. Her smile softens as Dean walks into the kitchen, and for the millionth time since I met him, I want to punch him in the face.

He smiles intimately at her before glancing my way, and when he does, his face instantly changes. He looks at me suspiciously, as if I’m the intruder here. As if it’s completely out of line for me to be hanging out with my girlfriend at eight p.m. on a Friday night but perfectly normal for him.

“Hey, Logan,” he says, but it sounds like a question, like, “Hey, Logan, what the fuck are you doing here?”

I can’t even force a smile. “Hey, Dean.”

“How did you like Phantom Thread?” Lani asks him.

“Well…like every other time I’ve watched a Paul Thomas Anderson movie, it was…” he pauses as if for effect, “nap time.”

When Lani giggles, it takes all of my willpower not to scowl at her. If I ever said anything like that she would give me the longest, most pretentious lecture ever about the value of auteur filmmaking and how our generation is snuffing it out with our pedestrian taste in billion dollar franchises like The Avengers. She already did, actually, when we watched Phantom Thread in bed a few months ago.

“PTA isn’t for everyone,” she says.

“Can we go to your room?” I ask her abruptly. I look at Dean. “We’re kind of in the middle of something.”

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