Page 2 of Revenge Cake

This is exactly what he did with Brittani.

Because this is what Logan does. He plows through relationships like he’ll get a reward for sheer volume. He repeats the same mistakes over and over again in a never-ending pattern of fevered infatuation that steadily dims with growing intimacy before exploding spectacularly into total disillusionment. He’s on an eternal quest for love, as his twin sister Lauren aptly pointed out.

And I’m done with him. Done with it all.

I lift my gaze from my lap, about to tell him what I know about last night, but just as I open my mouth, my tongue freezes. I can’t do it. I’m gripped with the same reservations that kept me from confronting him last night.

I can’t do it like this.

I can’t do it while I sit here with my shoulders hunched and my arms hugging my body, my hair in a messy knot on my head, and my eyes probably red and veiny from lost sleep. I look exactly like the mess I’ve become.

I just can’t do it.

So instead I probe him. “What exactly do you mean by giving me time to get my shit together?”

“I mean I’m going to give you one month to work on yourself. And you’d better look into a twelve-step program or something. Like, you need to seriously figure your shit out.”

A heat of rage surges at his continued contempt, but I can’t show it. Not if I’m going to wait a month to confront him. Instead, I smile sweetly, blinking up at him slowly. “Of course I do,” I say in a breathy voice.

My sarcasm incenses him. He grits his teeth before saying, “I have every right to be pissed off. You were a fucking shitshow. The very least you can do is acknowledge it.”

I lower my gaze to my lap. Those were the exact words he used last night, but at least then I had the aftereffects of my boozy, Ativan haze to dull the stinging pain in my chest.

“And all the stuff you said…” He breaks off. For the first time I hear an emotion other than anger in his voice. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.”

Even in my indignation over the injustice of it all, guilt grips me. I don’t know why I said those awful things—those mean, nasty, hurtful things—that weren’t even true. I must have lost my head in my drugged rage. He’s right that I’m a shitshow.

“So I’m going to give you a month to figure your shit out, and then we can reassess. We’ll meet up exactly a month from today, which will give us three weeks before graduation to figure everything out.” He settles hard eyes on me. “I sure as fuck am not moving to another city with you if you’re still doing all this shit a month from now.”

“Fair enough,” I say lightly, and I’m surprised that it didn’t take effort.

It occurs to me that I no longer feel the physical toll of trying to keep it together—the rigidity in my poster, the tightness in my throat. Sometime after he told me he’s giving me time, my body relaxed, my breathing steadied. The dreaded panic retreated when I realized I might be able to exit this relationship with a shred of dignity.

Maybe even more than a shred! Maybe I can make him regret what he did. The realization makes my body feel lighter, but I can’t indulge it just yet. This will be no easy feat.

It will take careful planning.

“Can you give me more than two-word answers, please?”

I’m startled by the question, but I try to sounds calm when I ask, “What else is there to say?”

When I stand up from the couch, Logan’s expression shifts. “Are you leaving?” he asks, an unfamiliar shrillness in his voice.

“Of course.” Two words. Intentionally this time.

I walk to the door, but hesitate when a thought occurs to me. I school my face into an expression of innocence before turning around and facing him. “Are we allowed to be with other people during our time apart?”

He stares at me blankly for almost a full five seconds before my meaning seems to dawn on him. “What the fuck kind of question is that? Are you just trying to piss me off?”

I fight the smile rising to my lips, trying my best to appear cool and aloof. “No, I’m really not. A month is a long time for me to go without sex, and I obviously won’t be having it with you.”

His lips part. “Are you fucking serious right now?”

“I am.” Two words.

He walks slowly toward me, his expression growing harder with each step. “It’s a strange thing for you to say when it’s been about a month now since we’ve had sex.” A humorless smile rises to his lips. “Are you sure your Ativan won’t be enough to get you by?”

The question makes my teeth clench, but unfortunately he’s right. I try to remain expressionless as I ask, “Is that a yes or no?”

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