Page 8 of Bitter Arrangement

I pluck at the big, oversized collar and shrug a little. “Just found it in some thrift shop.”

Which isn’t remotely true. Every time I adjust the fabric slightly, I get another whiff of its smell. I can’t bring myself to wash it, even two weeks since I first stole it from my future husband’s house.

Now I’ve got it on with some tights, similar to how I wore it for him, but with a cute belt like a big old dress.

It works. Mostly. Enough, anyway.

“Yet again you manage to make the impossible possible.” Cass orders a gin and tonic when my second beer arrives. We talk about family gossip, mutual friends, and how college is going for her. I smile and nod along, doing my best to be happy for her, while inwardly I’m burning with jealousy.

I wanted school. I applied and got accepted to six different universities, but my father made it clear that I wasn’t going anywhere. Even though I was getting recruited for gymnastics and I probably wasn’t going to have to pay much, if anything, in tuition.Your place is with your family, he’d said to me when I showed him my letter from Notre Dame. Not a smile, not a hug, no proud high-five, nothing. Just his usual glare and stern frown.

That was four years ago, and I’ve never gotten over it.

Cass is lucky, though. She’s a couple of years younger than me, and her parents are a little more permissive. She has to live in their house, but at least she gets to attend UBalt and get a degree.

While all I’ve done since graduating high school is learn how to pick a lock and jam open a window.

Finally, after finishing her first drink, she leans in close and gives me a sly smile. “So, I’ve been dying to ask?—”

“And now you’re drunk enough to do it?”

She grins, bobbing her head up and down. “How are you feeling about the upcoming wedding?”

Nerves jangle in my stomach like pennies rattling around my guts. I touch the shirt and smooth it down, trying not to think about the smell of his room, that cold glass eye watching me as I stroked myself into orgasm, that incredible low voice talking to me the whole time. Calling me a slut, making me beg.

He left a mark on me, and I still haven’t even met him.

“I’m resigned,” I say, glaring down at my beer. I take a foamy sip and spin the glass in slow circles. “It’s important. I get it. But I’m not excited.”

“I know,” she says softly, leaning against my shoulder. “There haven’t been any attacks since the deal went down, though. That’s good, right? You’re like a hero or something.”

I shrug slightly. She’s right, nobody’s gotten hurt, all thanks to my noble sacrifice.

Except I was never given the choice of whether I wanted to be a hero or not.

And deep in my heart of hearts, I wonder if I would’ve had the courage to say yes.

“Want to hear something terrible? I know what’ll happen if I don’t go through with this, but I keep having a fantasy about running away.”

“Where would you go?” she asks.

“Somewhere warm. Probably in the Caribbean? Maybe down to Australia, as far as I can run.”

“Your dad would come looking.”

“Yeah, probably, and I’d be looking over my shoulder all my life, assuming he doesn’t catch me right away. That’s why I haven’t done it.”

She hugs me tightly. “I’m so sorry, Riles. I know this sucks. I wish I could do something to help.”

“It’s fine. Actually, I have an idea.”

“What do you need? Seriously, anything.”

“Help me fake my own death.”

She frowns a bit and squints at me. “I could borrow my dad’s car and make it look like you drove it into the harbor?”

“That’d be perfect. I always thought my death would be dramatic.”

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