Page 65 of Brazen Criminals

“Well, if you’re going to be snippy about it, I’ll just go.” She hangs up on me.

A strange, daring part of me urges me to throw my phone as far as I can, just to get rid of the anger coursing through me. But I can’t even afford next week’s groceries, let alone a new phone, so I jam the thing into my purse and walk faster, wishing I could sprint without pain.

I burst into the house, storming back to my room, but it’s too small to contain me right now. I’m not calling her back. She’s going to be pissed. She probably will “forget” about my race and be a no-show just to get back at me.

Throwing my pillow across the room doesn’t help, even with the scream that accompanies the toss. I yank open the bathroom door, thinking a shower might help, but the thought of standing still makes me nauseous. I pace into the kitchen, opening up the fridge only to remember that I ate my last yogurt this morning. Slamming the fridge door, a chorus of jingles from the beers in the door calms me, so I open the door and slam it again.

“You’re right. The fridge is a total asshole.”

I spin around and glare at Walker on the other side of the kitchen, his half smile sparking more anger. I open the fridge a third time, slamming it while staring at him, daring him to say anything. He raises his hands in surrender. “I’m agreeing with you, don’t look at me like that.”

I move over by the stove, pulling out pots and pans and putting them back, the crashing noises singing to my anger, but I don’t have anything to cook, so I don’t know what I’m trying to do. Walker nudges me out of the way. “Do you want to punch something?” he asks, pulling out tubs of flour and sugar.

“Desperately.”

“Good.”

I watch, shifting my weight from foot to foot as Walker scoops something into a little bowl with water and sugar, stirring wet ingredients in one bowl, dry in another. When he mixes the two together, making a sticky mess, I decide I’m going to leave. Before I make it two steps, though, he says, “Pull out the big cutting board and cover it in flour.”

I set the cutting board on the counter across from him, wash my hands, and spoon some flour onto the board, spreading it around. He promised punching, not sprinkling, and I’m running out of patience.

He flops the blobby mess in front of me, the flour bowl not quite empty. “What am I supposed to do?” I ask.

“Punch it.”

I do, and the springy dough takes the punch easily. Walker turns the lump and I punch it again. We keep doing this, Walker slowly adding the rest of the flour mixture. By the end of the bowl, my arm is getting tired. I don’t think I’ve ever punched anything except my pillow before, and even that was only once or twice.

Walker takes the dough from me, does a few twisty flops with the mass, then splits it into two even lumps. “Can you grab two large bowls and toss some vegetable oil in them? Enough to cover the bottom.”

I follow his directions, focusing on the task, allowing the last of my anger to dissipate. I hand him the bowls one at a time, suddenly chilly after my outburst. He puts a lump in each bowl, spinning them until each is covered in oil. Finally, he gets some damp kitchen towels and covers the bowls, setting them on top of the fridge.

He washes his hands, and I join him, neither of us speaking.

I’m just calm enough to worry about my overreaction, about how awful I acted. I want to apologize, but I don’t know how Walker likes his apologies.

Everyone has their own flavor of apology. My mother needs to hear that she was right and I was wrong. Bryce needed me to apologize over and over until I was in tears before he’d forgive me.

“Do you feel any better?” Walker asks, and I still don’t know what to say.

I go for basic, my eyes on the ground. “I’m so sorry I lost it like that.”

Walker bumps up against my shoulder, forcing me to look up at him. “Don’t worry about it. How are you feeling?”

I open my mouth, and I realize I don’t have a script for this. Walker must see some of the panic in my eyes, because he pulls me into a tight hug just before a weird wheezy yell-cry escapes me. I don’t think I’ve ever made a noise like that before, and it makes me both laugh and sob.

It’s official. I’ve lost it.

I’m snorting and sobbing and shaking and Walker just holds me, one warm arm around my shoulders, the other hand rubbing my back in slow circles.

“What is wrong with me?” I gasp, trying to take enough slow breaths to stop this crazy wash of every emotion I’ve ever had slamming into me, relentless waves of overwhelm.

Walker just keeps rubbing, and sooner than I thought possible, a huge sigh escapes me. A few more breaths, and I feel mostly normal. “What the fuck just happened?” I ask, gently pushing away from Walker to wash my face in the kitchen sink.

His hand is on my lower back, supporting me still, as I get myself clean.

Urging me to the living room, he pulls me onto his lap on the couch, his arms around my waist. “I think you just had a totally reasonable reaction to a really shitty week.”

I settle against him, my body relaxing in his arms, just like it did those two nights we cuddled in my bed. “I don’t think reasonable people take out their anger on a fridge. I really am sorry, Walker.”

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