Page 3 of Revenge Cake

The smile vanishes. “Of course we’re not allowed to have sex with anyone else. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

I stare steadily back at him, fighting the urge to sneer. “Fine. I suppose I can handle celibacy for a month.” I move toward the door, but hesitate once more. I turn to him. “Oh, one more thing.” I grip the bottom of my T-shirt and pull it up over my head. With a flick of the wrist, I toss it into the air. Logan’s green eyes dart to the red fabric as it drifts to the floor in front of his feet. He stares at it for a moment before lifting his head and meeting my eyes.

“I won’t be needing that,” I say.

His eyes dart to my chest then back to my face. “Lani, what the fuck?” he shouts. “Are you really going to walk out of here in your bra?”

I glance down at the lacy fabric cupping my small boobs. I smile innocently as I look back up at him. “It’s more of a bralette.” I shrug before turning toward the door.

After setting my hand on the knob, I hesitate at the sound of his voice. “Oh my god,” he mumbles. “You are seriously unhinged right now.”

The contemptuous statement propels me out the door.

Blinding sunshine that makes me sneeze. Lines in the sidewalk passing under my feet. The rustling of leaves from the ocean wind. An effusive conversation between a group of college students on the other side of the street. “I literally died of alcohol poisoning,” a boy says. Incorrect use of “literally.”

If I take inventory of my surroundings, hopefully I’ll be too distracted to cry before I make it to my car.

“Lani!” Logan’s distant shout tells me he didn’t follow me.

He didn’t even step outside his front door.

I take a slow, steady breath, realizing for the first time that I’m not going to cry. Something inside me shifted today. Of my range of emotions over the past few months—fear, humiliation, despair—the only one markedly absent was anger. And it feels great as it pulses through my body like the buzz from a strong cup of coffee. I’ll be just fine without you, Logan Henderson.

And thanks for giving me a month to prove it to you.

CHAPTER 2

Past—The Meet-Cute

Logan

“No need to thank me now,” Armaan says, his head turned from my view as he parallel parks on the neighborhood street, “but I’m about to introduce you to two potential rebound lays. Both of Brenna’s roommates are hot. Just wait till you meet Mia.” He shuts his eyes as he shakes his head. “Smokeshow. It’s a shame I met Brenna first.”

I sigh heavily, exhausted at the prospect. I know he’s just trying to cheer me up by bringing me here tonight, but I wish I’d stayed at home. My breakup is still too fresh for me to start pursuing another girl, even only as a “rebound lay.”

“I just hope you told them that I’m not up for anything serious.”

Armaan snorts as he twists the key and turns off the ignition. “Sure you aren’t.”

“I’m serious. I’m done with relationships for the rest of college.”

“Right.”

I fight the urge to groan. “No, I really mean it.”

“I know you do. That’s why it’s funny.” With that he exits the car.

I can’t blame him for not believing me. I’ve had probably ten relationships just since he and I met in the Anacapa dorms three years ago, and I’ve had at least forty since seventh grade.

I’m well known among all of our friends as The Relationship Sociopath—a title earned mostly from a few impulsive words said to a girl I met during a spring break trip to Cabo (and who among us hasn’t told someone they love them when they were drunk, only to take it back the next day?)—but it’s not really true. I’m not in relationships all the time because I treat women like conquests, but because I don’t see the need to hold back when I meet a beautiful girl I love to be around, and there are smart, interesting, beautiful girls everywhere, especially in a college town like Santa Barbara.

I feel like my friends should be explaining why they aren’t in relationships all the time.

But my disastrous breakup with Brittani was a wakeup call. I shouldn’t need to justify being in healthy relationships all the time, but toxic relationships are exhausting, and I need time to recover.

“What are we even doing tonight?” I ask after catching up to him on the sidewalk. I put both hands in my pockets to fight the cold. It’s an unseasonably chilly day for late March in Santa Barbara.

He stops in front of the baby-blue Victorian house with the white shutters and wraparound deck. “Just hanging out. Mia stalked you on Instagram and thinks you’re pretty.”

---