Page 103 of Left-Hand Larceny
My friends know everything now. About the job I hate. About never feeling like I belong. About the baby box, the adoption papers. About how hard it is to feel lovable when you’ve always believed you were someone’s mistake. They didn’t flinch. They stayed. Mads grabbed my hand. Jen passed me a napkin with glitter lip gloss smudged on it. Quinn, tough as she is, got misty-eyed. Even Tristan, who probably doesn’t know what to do with this much emotion, offered to help me find a new gig.
I should feel hollowed out, but I don’t. I feel lighter.
I weave through the crowd toward the bathroom, dodging some guy in a Patriots jersey and a girl dancing with a half-eaten mozzarella stick. I’m almost there when I hear it—my name, low and sharp like a paper cut.
“Sadie.”
My stomach drops. I don’t even need to turn around. I already know the smell of his cologne. Know the way his voice curves around my name like it’s something dirty.
Christian.
I square my shoulders before I look at him. He’s leaning against the wall near the hallway to the restrooms, arms crossed. Polished. Pressed. Shark eyes.
“You’ve been ignoring my texts,” he says. “Real mature.”
“I blocked you,” I say evenly. “So, yeah. That’s sort of the point.”
His smile is all teeth. “Cute.” He looks me up and down, like he’s still got the right. “You always did like performing. Acting out. The glasses, the hair… this whole weird little manic pixie thing you’ve got going on.”
I don’t answer. I won’t give him that.
“You done playing the tragic orphan yet?” he sneers, just loud enough for me to hear over the hum of the bar. “Or is that still your favorite party trick? Poor little Sadie, always needing someone to save her.”
The words hit, but not the way he wants them to. Not like before. I brace for that twist in my gut, the one that usually follows his voice. The doubt. Self-loathing.
It doesn’t come.
Instead, my brain gives me Ragnar. The way he talks to me like I’m real. Like I’m more than the bright noise I use to keep people from seeing the cracks. The way he listens, quietly andcompletely, as if he can see straight through the mess and still wants me, anyway.
I think about how he kissed me like I mattered. How he whisperedég elska þigand looked at me like I hung the damn moon. How he took care of me when I couldn’t even look at myself.
And suddenly, Christian doesn’t scare me anymore.
He just makes me angry.
Furiously, bone-deep angry.
“Get out of my way,” I say, voice tight.
Christian steps closer, a sneer twisting his perfect mouth.
“I came to talk.” His tone is low. Controlled.
I look around. No one in sight.
He steps closer. “You embarrassed me.”
“I told the truth.”
“You threw a tantrum,” he says. “And now you’re what—shacked up with some dumb jock? You think that’s an upgrade?”
I don’t answer. Because yes, obviously, and Ragnar is far from dumb.
His voice softens. It’s something he does often, the false sweetness. It makes my hackles raise. “I’m willing to forget it happened. If you apologize. If you try harder.”
Try harder?
The words hit me like a slap across the mouth.
