Page 78 of Wicked Little Game
He’s probably right, but I still can’t look at him, let alone talk to him. Nonetheless, I walk over to the door. My hand is on the handle, but I don’t open it.
Instead, I sit down on the floor, my backpressed against the wood. If he ever wants to talk to me again, he has to let me have my dramatic moment first.
“I don’t want to talk to you. And stop calling me darling.”
“Why?”
“Because—I don’t know, because I fucking say so.”
“Okay. Is dipshit better?”
I bite down on my tongue, pissed at myself for smiling.
“Shut up, Sam.”
He places something in front of my door and, with a sigh, he retreats to his own room. I wait until I hear his door falling shut before I take a look.
A plate of pancakes stands in front of my door. He must have made them himself, judging by their funny shapes. He even formed a sad face with blueberries on the top one.
I smile as I take them into my room, but at the same time, tears run down my cheeks.
It’s more than sweet, especially from someone like him. But maybe that’s exactly what he wants me to think.
The next night, it happens again. He knocks on my door, but this time, he doesn’t even ask if we can talk. He just knocks, places something on the floor, and walks away. Judging by the smell that reaches me on my bed, it’s pizza.
It’s like he’s trying to lure out an angry pet from under the couch by shaking a bag of treats and, sadly, this approach also works on me.
He ordered my favorite pizza, I realize as I slam the door shut.
I’m at the stage of grief where I’m mad. The only question is if I’m mad at him or at myself.
On the third night, I hope for sushi.
Instead, there’s a piece of paper lying on the ground, the wordsI’m sorryscribbled on it. I pout as I read it, not because it isn’t sushi, but because it’s getting harder and harder to be angry.
He just did his job, after all. It’s not like he came here to make me fall for him just because he thought it would be fun to break my heart. Actually, I’m more of a toxic asshole, because making him fall for me, at least on a sexual level, had been my intention before I lost my focus like a moron.
His door opens, and he comes out with his hands in the air as if I’m holding not a piece of paper but a gun. I glare at him as I keep on standing there, trying to decide what I’m going to do.
I promised myself not to talk to him for at least a week, but now I wonder what I’m hoping to get out of this silent protest.
“Can we talk? I promise I’ll go back to my room as soon as we’ve cleared a few things up.”
“Okay,” I mumble as I walk back into my room, expecting him to follow me. I sit down on my bed and for a second he stands there, unsure what to do with himself.
“Couch,” I say. “You’re stressing me out when you’re standing around like that.”
He walks over to my couch, shoving a ton of clothes to the side before there’s even enough space for him to sit down. My room went back to its natural chaotic state after I angrily decided that I’dnever everlet Samuel in here again. Or anyone, to be honest.
He plays around with a few bikinis, inspecting them before he folds them.
“New?”
“Ditch the small talk,” I say, but it doesn’t come out as mean as I want it to.
He breathes in deeply, and then he starts talking. I would say thatwetalk, but it’s mostly him. We speak about what kind of information he needs, but we don’t speak about what happens once he gets it.
We also decide against luring my father back here. It wouldhave been easy to tell him I ran off again, or that something happened to me, but we both assure each other that it’s better not to do it.
