Page 17 of Revenge Cake

She’s warmed up to me. In all ways but one, but god damn it I’m a greedy bastard, and I can’t stand it. If she’s going to basically be my girlfriend, she should be my god damn girlfriend.

After ironing the last letter, I lift up the shirt to show Armaan the final product. “My Boyfriend Is a Feminist” in bold letters. “What do you think? Should I start my own Etsy business?”

Armaan groans. “I changed my mind. I don’t think you’re a relationship sociopath. I think you might just be a regular sociopath.”

“You said that Lani might be a serial killer, so I guess that makes us perfect for each other. Trust me, this will make her laugh. That was the whole point in making it.” When the words ring hollow to my own ears, I wonder if I’m trying to convince myself more than Armaan.

He lifts a brow. “I think the point is that all of their friends will be at the March and you want a sign across her tits announcing that you’re her boyfriend.”

It’s not a leap for him to come up with that, given that I’ve been whining about my predicament whenever I get the chance. I’m envious of his relationship with Brenna. He hasn’t known her much longer than I’ve known Leilani, but she’s given him none of the same stubbornness, and he doesn’t even appreciate it.

“You should have made her some yoga pants. Then you could have ironed ‘Logan was here’ on her ass.”

I roll my eyes, wishing that my possessiveness wasn’t so glaringly obvious. I wish I had control over this frustrating itch to stake my claim on her. It’s a really bad look, especially since we’re going to a fucking Women’s March today.

With that thought, I fix Armaan with a glare. “Don’t say any of that sexist shit in front of the girls. Not even as a joke.”

“I won’t need to. She’ll know as soon as she sees that stupid T-shirt.”

***

We arrive at the Blue House an hour early to pick the girls up for the March. Armaan knocks the ornate wooden door once before walking in, and I envy the sign of intimacy. For as much time as I’ve spent with Lani these last few months, I still wouldn’t have the balls to enter her house without being let in first, like a fucking vampire, but Armaan doesn’t have to worry about seeming presumptuous to their roommates because he has the “boyfriend” label.

Armaan immediately walks toward Brenna’s room, but I wait in the living room, wanting Lani to come to me. I walk over to the coffee table and pick up a book, pretending to skim through it as she calls my name from the hallway. When I look up to see her standing in the entryway, I melt at her delighted smile. A voice at the back of my mind asks why she won’t just admit what’s all over her face.

“Do you want to borrow that?” she asks, referring to the book in my hand. “You’d love it.”

“I’ve already read it actually. And I’ve read like three nonfiction books in my life that weren’t for school, so I’m kind of impressed with myself.”

“You always do that.”

“What?”

A faint smile twinges her lips. “You downplay your intelligence. At every opportunity.”

I shrug, smiling. “I’m not that smart, Lani. And it’s okay. I’m totally fine with it.”

“You’re very smart,” she says firmly, though still with that ghost of a smile. “You just have a dumb face.”

I smile warmly at the memory of our first non-date. “And a dumb voice.” I narrow my eyes at her. “It almost sounds like you’re trying to talk yourself into my intelligence. I wonder if you have something against dumb people. Maybe you’re embarrassed that you have a dumb boyfriend.”

She lifts a brow. “But I don’t have a dumb boyfriend, because I don’t have a boyfriend.”

I force my smile to stay in place, fighting the urge to clench my teeth. This playful argument is still fun to her, and I can’t show her how annoyed I am after a month of it. I’m about to respond when I hear Armaan interject from the hallway. “Uh oh,” he sings out. “Sounds like someone doesn’t like the shirt you made her.”

“What shirt?” Lani asks, as Armaan and Brenna walk into the living room.

“Oh, yeah.” I chuckle, trying to make the shirt sound like an afterthought, like it hasn’t been foremost on my mind since I made it this morning. “Instead of making a sign for the March, I made you a T-shirt.”

I lift up the folded red material from the coffee table and let it fall open, clenching my teeth as I wait for her reaction. “I was hoping you weren’t set on wearing what you already have on.”

“My boyfriend is a feminist…” She says it under her breath. For a moment, she only shakes her head slowly, but luckily I’m not left hanging for too long when she snorts out a laugh. She covers her mouth as giggles burst out.

Thank god. I exhale the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

“I see you took my instructions literally,” she says. “I’m confused, though…”

I narrow my eyes in playful exasperation, trying not to show how actually annoyed I am at what I know she’s about to say.

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