Page 46 of Revenge Cake

The plan for tonight is rather fluid. I just need to look hot, remain aloof, and leave abruptly. I need to stimulate his curiosity enough to leave him wanting more. The lure is a slow burn. It doesn’t happen in one night.

The first part was easy thanks to my makeover. My slutty Audrey Hepburn dress barely covers my ass now that we’re sitting down. If I feel brazen enough later, I might open my thighs for Logan like Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct.

Leaving abruptly won’t be difficult either. I’ve always hated muggy bars, and I hate them even more now without the dulling balm of alcohol and Ativan.

And I absolutely will not be drinking tonight.

Which brings me to the difficult part. Staying aloof might be hard. Logan knows me well, and he’s always been attentive to my moods. If panic comes on, he’ll know. I won’t be able to feign indifference.

“I hope so,” I whisper to Brenna. “Have you heard from Armaan yet?”

“Yes.” She reaches for her purse, pulling her phone out. “Logan is such a liar. Armaan had no intention of going out tonight.”

“He didn’t even make much of an effort to hide that he was lying. That’s Logan Henderson in a nutshell. He even knows that I know he’s lying, and he doesn’t care. Absolutely shameless. If I confront him on it he’ll just smile and be like—” I imitate Logan’s playful half-smile and lazy speaking style, the way he draws out the vowels and talks out of the side of his mouth—“‘And I’m not really sorry.’”

“That’s so Logan! You sound exactly like him.”

My chest aches. I smile, turning away to hide my sudden rush of overwhelming nostalgia. It’s true that I know him well. I know him well enough that I have his exact replica in my mind, capturing everything from his voice to his movements to his mannerisms. I’ve used it to anticipate arguments—if I say this, then he’ll say that, and so on.

It makes me wonder what will happen to this replica of Logan when the real Logan is gone. Will I still hear his voice and see that beautiful smile ten years from now?

God, I hope not. I want to forget him.

“Shit,” Brenna says. “They’re here.”

Her exclamation startles me from my reverie, but the melancholy is only momentarily suspended, plummeting into an agonizing ache at the center of my chest when I see what she means by “they.”

Keira.

How could I have forgotten? Of course she would come tonight. Probably to keep Logan in line. After all, his “boundary setting” intervention was her idea. I can only admire her cleverness. She wanted Logan, and found a healthy, rational way to overcome the pathetic, pill-popping obstacle that stood in her way.

My only comfort is her obvious irritation in having to be here tonight. Her jaw is set and her face expressionless as the three of them make their way through the crowd. Armaan approaches first with a cocktail in each hand. He places one of them in front of Brenna just as Logan sits on the ottoman directly across from me. I don’t look his way, but I sense his attention on my right hip as it presses against Dean’s thigh. I fight the urge to lean back into Dean’s shoulder.

Too obvious.

Brenna takes a big gulp of her yellow cocktail before setting it down on the table in front of us. She grabs the pineapple garnish and takes a bite. “Armaan, I’m drinking yours too.”

“Whatever,” Armaan says, long accustomed to Brenna’s high-handedness. “I don’t like this tiki shit anyway.” He looks around the misty bar with a frown on his face. “Like, just give me a normal fucking drink, dude. Don’t make me pay fifteen dollars for a tiny umbrella.”

I turn to Dean, smiling wide. “I love the tiny umbrellas.”

He smiles back. “Do you want me to get you something? I’m sure they could make any drink on their menu virgin.”

I shake my head. I’m about to tell him that I’m against virgin cocktails in principle when Logan’s voice booms through the ambient bar noise. “Why would you order a virgin drink?”

His tone says it all. He’s both frantically curious and grimly suspicious, wondering why I’m not drinking, and more importantly, why Dean knows and he doesn’t. With effort, I keep my face blank as I turn to him. “I’m not consuming any mood-altering substances for the time being.” His brow furrows in question, but I don’t acknowledge it as I turn back to Dean. It’s crucial that I stimulate Logan’s curiosity without satisfying it.

I frantically search my brain for a topic to bring up with Dean, when Logan’s voice booms once again. “Does that include Ativan?”

The disdain in his voice combined with his obvious disbelief leaves me momentarily frozen. In Logan’s mind, the chances of my quitting Ativan are so slim that he doesn’t even bother to hide his sarcasm. The realization leaves me stunned.

I was right. When he told me he wanted to go on a break so that I could figure things out, he didn’t think there was a chance in hell that I actually would. The one-month break was only Part I of our breakup.

Tears threaten behind my eyes, but I strain my facial muscles to keep them in place. Why does it all still hurt so much when I already knew it to be the truth?

I take a deep breath through my nose and release it slowly through my mouth. I turn to him and give him the direct, unblinking stare he said made him hard on the night we met. For added effect, I wait a few seconds before answering him. It works. The sternness in his face softens into uncertainty. “Yes,” I say. “I stopped taking Ativan. It’s been thirteen days and…” I glance at my watch, “seven hours.”

His eyes grow contrite as he leans forward in the chair. “That’s great.” His lips close as if he’s considering his next words. “I’m proud of you.”

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