Page 20 of Revenge Cake

A notch forms on her brow. “What’s going on?”

“Logan told me he’s in love with me.”

Brenna snorts. “Unsurprising.”

“I know,” I say, wishing I could be happier about his admission. Moments after he said it I wanted to burst with joy, but reality quickly hit. This is just a natural step in his rapid ascension to fevered, infatuated love. “He’s quite predictable.”

“Don’t let it bum you out, though. Enjoy it. Armaan is the same way, even though he loves to make fun of Logan for it. He literally does exactly what I say. All the time. People think there’s something wrong with that, but I honestly don’t. I think that’s how it should be. People with strong personalities like you and me need a subservient partner. And after thousands of years of patriarchy, is it so bad to have maybe a handful of years of matriarchy to even the score a little bit? I think not! I think it’s justice.”

I only smile faintly. I can’t agree with her. My coldness is a big enough barrier to intimacy. I don’t need the added distance of an unequal partnership.

She reaches her hand to my lap and grabs my own, delivering a tight squeeze before she says, “You’re a queen and you deserve someone who worships you, and Logan definitely worships you.”

For now, keeps playing over and over in my head. He loves me for now. He worships me for now, but just wait until the fevered infatuation breaks and his indifference becomes just as palpable as his adoration now, if only because its absence will so much harder to bear.

CHAPTER 7

Present Day

Logan

“Ugh,” I groan, running my hands through my hair before gripping it tightly, sending tingles into my scalp. “Is this really necessary?”

I’ve never understood list makers. How does writing down things I’m determined to do make them any more likely to happen? I have zero desire to reach out to Leilani right now, even after five days of hearing nothing from her. Even knowing she’s probably stewing in rage at what she perceives as my defection.

It’s surprising. This separation from her feels nothing like I thought it would. I was certain I would worry about her, and especially about her Ativan consumption, given that I’m no longer around to make sure she’s okay. I worried I would feel guilt even against my better judgment, knowing she’s the one in the wrong. But I feel no anxiety, no guilt.

Only anger.

“Yes,” Keira says firmly. When I look up at her, a smile plays at the edges of her full lips.

God, she’s wonderful. She really wants to help me. I can’t believe I almost felt guilty when I reached out to her a month ago.

Keira and I became friends when we lived on the same floor our first year in the dorms, though we’d only had occasional contact since then. But when things went to shit with Lani, I needed to talk to someone. I remembered that Keira’s a Psych major, and her brother’s a recovering alcoholic. She’s a wealth of information about addiction and co-dependency.

I don’t know what I would do without her.

I have no reason to feel guilty. I can’t help that she’s beautiful. It’s certainly not why I sought her out.

Pleasure fills my chest as I smile back at her. I glance at the pen and notepad in her hands. “Alright. Hand them over.”

She walks over to the desk and hands me the pen and notepad. “Okay,” she starts, and on cue I set the notepad on my lap and write the number one at the top of the lined yellow paper. “It should go without saying that you can’t have sex with her during your break.”

She really thinks I would do that? Heat creeps into my cheeks. I drop the pen, frowning. “Well, obviously—” I begin, but she lifts a hand to halt me, a playful smile tugging at her lips.

“It doesn’t need to be the first item on your list, but it needs to be on there. I know it’s your greatest weakness with her.”

“One of them,” I say, my mind drifting back to those first few months. Talking is another. We’d lay in bed naked and I’d listen to her explain why Jackie Brown is objectively Quentin Tarantino’s masterpiece, or something else off the wall and pretentious that only Lani would say. Then we’d have sex for the second time, and afterwards while she lay in my arms I’d tell her about the summer after my junior year of high school when my dad and I hiked Half Dome, and she’d listen intently—her brows drawn, her lips pursed—as if my inarticulate rambling was the most interesting story she’d ever heard. My chest aches at the memory of how things used to be before everything went to hell.

Once Lani found Ativan, she stopped giving a shit about me. She stopped talking. She stopped listening. She retreated so far into herself, it felt like there was nothing left for me anymore.

When I glance at Keira, she’s frowning sympathetically. I sit up straight, schooling my face into a neutral expression. “It can be the last item on my list.”

She nods. “I think the first one should be that you won’t look at her Instagram.”

I shake my head. “I have no desire to look at it.”

“Right now, you don’t.” She points to the pad of paper in front of me, a challenging expression on her face. “This is about accountability.”

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