Page 47 of Kind of a Bad Idea

“Right, keep your eye on the ball, Binx,” I say, dropping my hands to my sides and giving my reflection a hard look in the mirror. With my cheeks sun-kissed from the days outside and my lips puffy from kissing Seven an absurd number of times today, I look like a well-loved woman having the staycation of her life.

I can be that woman for another day. And then, come tomorrow night, if Seven and I are falling asleep, and he’s still determined to say “so long” in the morning, maybe I’ll let myself ugly cry on his chest and beg him to give us a chance.

I’m not above an ugly cry. Not even close.

I have no shame when it comes to Seven, which should probably bother me. I’m not the kind of woman who begs for a man’s attention. I’m the kind who flips a man the bird and tells him to get fucked if he can’t see that I’m something special.

But it’s different with Seven. I know he thinks I’m special. It’s himself that he has doubts about.

“You’re going to get through to him,” I tell my reflection. I stand up a little straighter, rolling my shoulders back. “He’s stubborn, but he’s met his match this time.”

My jaw relaxes and the tension in my chest eases—because I believe it. He has met his match, in every way, and I’m going to make sure he realizes that by Friday morning. Look how far we’ve come in less than forty-eight hours. There’s still time to turn this around.

Comforted by my pep talk, I head out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, arriving in time to watch a familiar car pull up the drive through the window above the sink.

Instantly, my stomach bottoms out and my heart starts beating a mile a minute.

“No,” I mutter, my hands balling into fists on the counter. “No, no, no!”

I bolt for the door, planning to tell the driver to turn the hell around and leave—now! I’m fine, I’m safe, and the last thing I want is to be “rescued” from my current situation.

But by the time I reach the front of the cabin, my mother has already cut the engine and is glaring at me through the windshield of her white Kia Sorento, a mortified-looking Wendy Ann cringing in the passenger’s seat beside her.

Chapter 18

SEVEN

Ihear the sound of wheels on the gravel road leading up to the camp and a wave of despair hits me like a tsunami hitting shore.

No.

I’m not ready for this to be over.

I need more time. Two more nights isn’t going to be enough as it is, but the thought of saying goodbye to Binx before then makes me want to lift the burning grill over my head and toss it into the yard.

Tater Tot must sense that something’s wrong, because he hustles across the clearing behind the cabin and into the woods as fast as his pudgy legs will carry him, fleeing my bubbling despair. Or maybe he’s just scared by the sound of the car. We don’t get many vehicles up here.

I really fucking wish we weren’t getting one right now, I think, then immediately feel like an asshole.

What if this is Mom coming to get me because there’s a problem with Sprout? What if she had another shitty day at school, finally put chicken poop in that mean girl’s locker like she’s been threatening to do, and got suspended or something? Or what if she climbed onto the roof again, even though I’ve told her a hundred times how dangerous it is, and fell off?

Fear for my daughter cutting through my selfishness, I quickly transition the sausages to a plate beside the grill and cover them with another plate to keep them warm. At least I can bring supper home with me if I’m headed back to town. Then I turn off the grill and head toward the front of the cabin, walking around the side of the building to greet the car in the driveway.

When I get there, Binx is already standing in front of a white SUV in an animated conversation with…her mother.

Oh fuck…

Her mother.

I’m sure there’s someone I’d less like to see right now—an armed terrorist, maybe, or my asshole of a parole officer from back in the day—but Fran McGuire is pretty high on the list. The woman hates me. And while I can’t blame her for wanting more for her daughter than an ex-con sixteen years her senior, I’ve also never done anything to hurt Binx. I’ve been a good friend to her, the kind she can count on to help clean out her gutters or change her oil for free.

I’ve also never crossed the line between friendship and anything more…at least not until last night.

Since then, however, I’ve done way more than cross the line. I’ve run over it in a tank, poured gasoline all over what was left of it, and set it on fire.

“Seriously, Mom, I’m fine,” I hear Binx say in a strained tone that makes me think it isn’t the first time she’s said the words. “I don’t want to go home. It’s been really nice up here, actually. Very peaceful.”

“Peaceful?” her mom bleats. “Being lied to, tricked, and left in the middle of the woods with no way to call for help is peaceful for you? I swear, Binx, I’ll never understand the way your brain works. Never, not even if I live to be a hundred and ten.”

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