Page 100 of One Big Little Secret

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Can I have a glass of water?” Arlo asks from behind us, rubbing his eyes with one hand.

He’s cuddling some oversized stuffed white penguin, chewing his thumb. He looks bleary and confused. I have no clue if he saw us.

Doesn’t matter.

I should not have fucking crossed that line.

I shouldn’t have complicated her life for a second time.

“I should go.” My words trip over themselves. “Thanks for the pizza and the wine, Salem. Arlo, you take care.”

She pauses in the kitchen and looks at me. Black pants, grey sweater pulled over a pink blouse. She’s a temptation and a curse, heaven-sent to make me sin.

“Sure,” she says bluntly after a second. Her voice is torn, her lips too red.

You did that, idiot.

How will she ever face you again?

“See you at work,” I tell her. Then I practically run from the apartment, slamming the door unintentionally hard on my way out. It’s still snowing outside and my car is half-buried. The cold wind feels like a blade in my throat.

Still, I’d walk home through the bone-stripping night if I could turn back time one hour. If I could’ve hauled my ass up and left when she sent Arlo to bed.

I never should’ve let us wind up alone.

I failed the test like the gigantic dumbass I am.

“Clown,” I mutter as I wipe the snow off the windshield and start the vehicle. “Fuck you, Patton Rory.”

I’m sure she’s saying the same thing right now a thousand different ways.

No wonder my brothers think I’m the hothead. The dumb one who never thinks anything through. The guy most likely to make bad decisions that blow us all up.

No fucking wonder.

Of all the mistakes I could’ve made, why did it have to be that trip down memory lane?

Why did I have to kiss Salem Hopper and make her life harder?

13

HEDGE YOUR BETS (SALEM)

It’s almost fitting.

I wake up to find my three alarms weren’t set right for the morning, making me late for work.

Not only that, but because my phone did a system update in the middle of the night, it canceled all of my backup alarms.

I’m the reigning queen of bad luck.

My mom also used to tell me bad news comes in threes. I wonder if the same rule applies to the world’s crappiest luck.

Today, with the way I’m sprinting around like a hen on fire and trying to get Arlo ready, that’s strike one. I’ll have to hope the other two only involve breaking a nail and winding up with an empty soap dispenser in the restroom.

“Mommy! We’re gonna be late,” Arlo calls as I run through the apartment in my robe, desperately trying to find clean underwear in the pile of laundry from a few days ago.

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