Page 1 of Revenge Cake

CHAPTER 1

Present Day

Leilani

“I’m just going to get straight to the point. I can’t do this anymore.”

There it is.

He finally said the words I’ve been dreading.

I inhale a shaky breath, desperate to calm my racing heart, but it’s futile. I’m too far gone already. My pulse pounds like a canon in my ears, while a feverish cold sweat sends trickles of moisture down my chest. That familiar sick feeling twists at the pit of my stomach, just before it grows—spreading like wildfire—thrashing through my limbs until I can’t keep them still.

I wish I could burst out of my skin to escape just the feeling alone. At my worst, I have actually clawed myself with the jagged edges of my chewed fingernails, or at least I gathered as much hours later when I saw the welted lines stretching from my collarbone to the edge of my bra. But even if I could break free, the fear is so all-consuming I almost believe it would follow me anywhere, even into death.

“You’re shaking,” Logan says, and it sounds like a simple observation. Long gone is the concern he once felt for my suffering. He resents me for it now.

“Yeah, I’m having a fucking panic attack.” I try to keep my voice light, but it only sounds brittle, like a tightly wound guitar string.

“It’s not going to make me feel sorry for you. I hope you realize that.” His words are matter-of-fact, free of the vicious anger from last night, but still they kill me. He’s never looked at me like this before, his face a rigid mask, his posture so languid he almost looks like he’s melting into the couch. Even at our worst, when I wanted to die of shame over the frantic behavior I couldn’t control, at the very least I had his pity.

And I’d take even that over this cool detachment.

He lowers his eyes to my chest. “And that shirt has no effect on me either. I don’t know if you thought it would bring back memories or if you’re just being passive aggressive, but I really couldn’t give two shits.”

I glance down at iron-on letters across my chest—My Boyfriend is a Feminist—already starting to peel and curl at the edges from too many washes. If I could feel anything other than panic, it might make me sad to look at it. The boy who made this shirt adored me. I miss him. I miss his kind, self-deprecating warmth. Where did he go? I don’t even recognize this hateful person next to me.

“Passive aggressive,” I say, though he wasn’t asking for a response.

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Good to know.”

“Just finish saying whatever it is you have to say.” I can’t bear the anguish of drawing this out. I knew it was over the moment he stormed out of my house last night. Even through my drugged haze, I could feel his hatred.

And the betrayal I overheard when he pocket-dialed me shortly after only confirmed it.

I’m about to mention the phone call, but when I lift my eyes to meet his, I’m seized with an overwhelming ache in my chest. This may be the last time I’ll ever see his face in person, and I miss it already. Thirteen months together has made it almost as familiar as my own. I love the way he looks, and not just because he’s beautiful. He has a kind face, with heavy-lidded eyes that make him look perpetually sleepy, and full, pouting lips that tilt up at the corners, suggesting a smile that isn’t there. And when he does smile, it’s so sincere, so full of goodwill—one eye crinkling more than the other, a lone dimple popping out. Even in his rage, he doesn’t look mean. Not really. I wish I could reach out and touch his cheek.

“Alright,” he says as he stands up from the couch and turns to face me, his six-foot-three form blocking the sunlight from the living room window. “I think we can both agree that after last night, things cannot continue this way any longer.”

“I agree,” I say.

He puts his hands on his hips as he stares down at me. I clench my hold around my upper arms, as if to shield myself from his judging gaze.

“I’m glad we’re on the same page. Seems like the first time we have been in months.” He spits out that last word.

Months of my constant panic attacks, he means. Months of taking too much Ativan. Months of ignoring my responsibilities and retreating even further into my own head. Months of looking like a bedraggled, sunken-eyed waif. Months of embarrassing him in front of our friends.

“I think I need to give you some time to figure things out.”

I blink once. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you have to get your shit together if we’re going to stay together, and I know that sounds harsh, but after last night I don’t have a lot of sympathy for you.”

I can only stare back at him with my lips parted. I didn’t expect that. I was certain this was the end. I shift my gaze to my lap, considering his words. Maybe he does feel a small measure of guilt, and it’s preventing him from showing me the full force of his rage. Maybe he feels obligated to give me another chance.

The hope that springs in my chest gives me pause. Have I really become this pathetic? I never would have accepted this even three months ago. I don’t want to be chosen out of guilt. I want him to want me with the passionate intensity of those first few months, when he was so desperate for my love he refused to let me push him away.

Besides, if he’s still hanging on to me after the misery of the last few months, he’s just repeating his old mistakes.

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