Page 28 of Scary Suitor

“Think harder, and the world will end,” Finny quips and lands a loud smooch on the back of my head. “Your world, I mean. Your synapses are not regenerating.”

“Let it die,” I drawl, hitting my hand on the desk. “Let me die.”

“What new revelation did you make this time?” she asks.

She throws my coat on my back, ushering me up to clock out of work. I lazily put my arms through the sleeves, eyes roving around the office, and sneer at the decorative pinkness everywhere.

My stomach twists distressingly. I don’t hate Valentine’s Day because of commercialism and the irresponsible expectation of overspending. I hate it for what it signifies: my doom.

The imminent deadline of an uncertain future.

Hell, I don’t know what to expect the moment midnight strikes. I’m confident he won’t dismember me like I’m a means to an inspirational muse.

As long as I’m unharmed, I have a fighting chance after the game ends. I have autonomy and a voice to get help, so I’ll use it.

“Spit it out already,” Finny whines, impatient as the elevator descends.

The lady in front of us turns a little, tugging her hair behind her ear to eavesdrop better. I doubt she knows the context of our conversation, and I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of hearing the gossip if Finny wasn’t yanking my arm.

“I like—” I recoil like I got shot with a bullet dipped in acid. Smoke practically comes out of my ears when the nosy woman leaves the elevator.

“I tolerate him,” I hiss, so angry at myself.

“Did you two fight?”

It’s worse than that; it would be better if it’s an argument because I can explain it to Finny for her advice. How do I tell her about the pool incident?

No way am I going to say anything about it. Not that confronting Cassio is an option. I’m too mortified, and he’s missing.

I was a train wreck the night it happened, feeling strange since I never thought I would enjoy being touched like that. Sleep eluded me, then I couldn’t find him for the rest of the retreat. While everyone was talking about the bad food and bathroom trips, I was losing my mind over facing him.

Throughout the entirety of nine days in his absence—I’ll never admit I was counting—I wanted to go see a doctor. The chlorine water must have corroded my brain, making me imagine him in kind lights and soft voices.

I woke up yesterday, noting how utterly bland my mood was during my morning routine. I had nothing to look forward to.

I miss that behemoth of a man.

A hushed screech breaches my clenched teeth as I scratch my head, dragging blistering lines with my nails, and tug the strands harshly.

Infuriating man.

What do I do with this loathsome revelation? What’s next? Will I be spending an extra fifteen minutes doing my hair in the bathroom? Douse my clothes with perfume marketed to seduce men? I better not start getting self-conscious about the way my hips sway.

A throaty chuckle raises my frustration. My head whips to Finny, glaring daggers at her entertained smirk.

“I can’t believe you’re laughing at me,” I accuse, and I feel ridiculed.

“I’m not,” she says, putting her hands up in surrender.

“I was,” a man’s guttural voice intones from behind me.

My heart lodges in my throat as I take in his sudden appearance. He’s in a form-fitting suit, shoes shiny enough to bounce off my reflection, and black hair slicked back with messy strands falling on his forehead.

I want to run my fingers through them. I wonder how he gets his hairstyle to listen without hair products that create linguine streaks. They look too soft.

“I’m going now,” Finny voices after an awkward silence.

“No,” I protest hastily, “I’ll go with you.”

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