Page 4 of Revenge Cake

I nod. Nothing new there.

“But she was even more excited to meet you when I told them what a wreck you’ve been since Brittani keyed your car…”

He trails off when I throw my head back and groan. “Was that necessary? Couldn’t you have just said we broke up and left it at that?”

He shakes his head. “I think the pity angle works really well here because it deflects from the real issue, which is that you’re super needy and incapable of being single.”

I smile. “Thanks for having my back.”

“No problem.”

We resume our walk up the warped wooden stairs to the front porch. When we reach the front door, Armaan turns to me. “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you the best part,” he says in a lowered voice. “The girls made you a cake.”

I frown. “Why would they make me a cake?”

“It’s this tradition between Brenna and her best friend Leilani—one of the roommates you’ll meet tonight. After every breakup, they bake a cake together and call it ‘Closure Cake.’ They put the person’s name on top in frosting letters and thank it for all the good times. And then they eat it and supposedly feel at peace about the breakup and as one with the universe…” He breaks into a smile when he sees the look on my face.

“You’re fucking with me, right?”

“I’m one hundred percent serious. Dude!” he whisper-shouts and then grins. “Leilani is out of her fucking mind. Like, I think she might secretly be a serial killer. She’s definitely crazier than Brittani. You’ll be in love with her by the end of the night. Mark my words.”

I only get the chance to roll my eyes, saved from the necessity of defending myself when the door opens and Brenna sings out, “The boys are here!”

As we walk into the front room, I see two girls sitting on a couch, each with a glass of wine in hand. My eyes don’t linger long enough to catch any details, but I have an overall sense of pretty. I shoot Armaan a look acknowledging that he delivered, and he answers me with a stoic nod.

Brenna introduces me to both of them. Armaan was correct about Mia. She is a smokeshow with her long, wavy blonde hair, but my eyes linger on Leilani, the one he said was secretly a serial killer. My brow furrows. This can’t be her. Even unsmiling, she looks like an angel with those giant brown eyes, full cheeks, and heart-shaped lips.

I don’t have time to contemplate that further when Mia approaches me. She asks if she can get me anything to drink, and if I need something a little stronger than usual because of my rough breakup. I glare at Armaan for telling the girls everything, but he only smirks back at me.

“We’re here to take care of you,” Mia says with a smile.

“That’s sweet, but I don’t really need it. My breakup was a long time coming.”

Mia winces as she says in a lowered voice, “I heard she vandalized your car.”

This time I shoot Armaan a much more menacing glare, and he cackles.

“‘Vandalized’ is kind of a strong word,” I say. “She keyed it.”

“And poured jungle juice through the crack in your window,” Armaan says.

“Yes.” I sigh. “And that.”

When a smirk forms on Armaan’s lips, I just know he’s about to be an asshole. I brace myself for whatever he’s about to say. “Tell the girls what she keyed into your car, Logan.”

My eyelids flutter, but I don’t respond.

“Come on.” He pats me hard on the back. “This is a safe space. We’re all here for you.”

“Armaan, seriously, fuck off.”

He only grins.

When I glance around the room, I see riveted eyes staring back at me. Of course they’re intrigued with an introduction like that. Oh well. There’s nothing to do about it now. “She keyed ‘fuckboy’ into my hood.”

Armaan is the only one who laughs—his signature cackle—because the girls are too polite to show amusement, though I notice a collective pursing of lips, likely to fight smiles. I can’t blame them. If I hadn’t been so distraught over the sharp deterioration of my relationship, I might have laughed too. My poor little white Prius looked so pathetic with those slanting letters across the hood. And having to drive it through my small home town of Coronado to get the paint fixed was the icing on the cake. I think at least five people I grew up with saw me before I made it to the body shop. I knew even in the moment that I would laugh about it someday.

Plus, it’s not like it’s true, so why should I be troubled by it? I’m not a fuckboy. I’m the opposite of a fuckboy. I’m a relationship-boy.

---