Page 64 of So Wild

Nicole folded over a yellow sunhat and placed it neatly on top of the pile she’d created. “No! He knows I’m not even close to sorting things out here, but he was hoping I’d fly home for a visit this weekend.”

At which point you’d find yourself locked in the attic like Mr Rochester’s quote unquote ‘crazy wife.’ “Why can’t he come here?”

“He’s busy.”

“You’re busy, but he still expects you to fly tohim.”

Nicole’s cheeks turned pink and she looked up at the ceiling. “I know you and Tabby don’t like Aaron, but I’m trying to understand where you are with Scott. Can’t you do the same?”

Sam wanted to say no, that what she and Scott had was different, but she knew that when people made those kinds of distinctions, the motivating factor was self-interest. Nicole loved Aaron and she loved Nicole, thus if she was a good sister, she would….attempt to tolerate Aaron. “Okay, I’ll lay off.”

“You mean it?”

Her sister looked so happy, Sam was almost ashamed. “Yeah, I mean it. Now could you be the best sister in the world and do my eyeliner? I can tattoo backwards but I always screw up drawing on my own eyelids.”

“That’s not surprising.”

“True, but I want to look mad hot for the purge so please help me?”

Nicole heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Fine. What happened with your friend, Kelly, by the way? Tabby was saying she was all over Scott at Ink the Night. She’s not annoyed you’re going on a date with him, is she?”

Sam grimaced. “She was a bit pissed, especially because she saw Scott first and then we kind of vanished together without saying anything, but we’ve had this ‘two girls, one chap problem’ before. She stole that rally-driver from under my nose at White Night two years ago, so I just reminded her of that and bought her a slab. She’s salty but she’ll live. And she’ll be my model for Fadeout if I get in, so it’s all good.”

Nicole frowned. “Did you tell her you’ve had a crush on Scott for like ten years? Because you definitely saw him first.”

“Nicole,” Sam said with all the sincerity she could muster. “I do not want to talk about the ten-year crush please, thank you.”

Her twin sighed. “Fine. Where’s your eyeliner pen?”

***

An hour anda half later, Sam was standing in an alley beside Brasserie, a French restaurant whose aura of cosy authenticity undoubtedly meant an insanely expensive menu. She ran her hands down the lines of her skirt feeling stupidly, unreasonably, nervous. She arrived five minutes late—pretty good for her—but now she couldn’t stop hovering.

Her lateness was pushing out to seven minutes, nine minutes, ten. She couldn’t explain it, except that going inside felt far more significant than a dinner date deserved. Her palms were sweating and her stomach was fluttering like a bushel of butterflies. It was so stupid, and yet she couldn’t stop it.

Sam closed her eyes and breathed deeply, the way her dad showed her. His theory was that if you asked your body a question, you would be presented with a bodily solution. As she focused in on herself, a warm glow spread through her middle. She knew what that meant—she was turned on, excited about what was going to go down once this dinner was over, but why was she hiding from her own horniness?

A memory came to her, completely out of left field—the day Elaine Sanderson had died and she and Nicole had brought food to Scott’s door. When no one answered, they left it on the porch. Twenty minutes later she watched from her bedroom window as Scott collected their offerings. She’d felt a moment of relief but a second later Scott burst out of his back door and hurled her pie onto on lawn like he was bowling for England. The crust exploded into wet chunks, spraying strawberries and cream cheese filling across the grass. Sam gasped like she’d been slapped. She waited for the lasagna to follow, but Scott hadn’t thrown anything else. He just wiped his hands on his jeans and went back inside, slamming the door behind him.

He’s grieving, Sam told herself, but it was hard not to cry, not to think of what he’d done as an attack on her. She’d stood by the window for almost an hour, watching magpies feast on the broken pie. She knew she had no right to feel hurt when he’d just lost his mother, but she’d been hurt. Apparently she was still hurt.

“Nope,” Sam said aloud. “We’re not going there, I told Nix that and I meant it. It doesn’t matter. The pie doesn’t matter, buy­scott­sanderson­aroot.com doesn’t matter. It’s all in the past.”

She straightened up, adjusting her skirt. She was here on a mission to purge, and purge she would. The door to Brasserie jingled as she stepped inside.

“Bonsoir, mademoiselle!” A young Frenchman with thin hair and a thick accent beamed at her. “’Ow may I ’elp you?”

Sam wondered if they hired French people because it looked better for the business and if that qualified as workplace discrimination. “I’m here for dinner.”

“Do you ’ave a reservation?”

Ferk.“There, um might be one under ‘Scott’ or ‘Sanderson?’”

“Ah yes, Mr Sanderson, follow me please?”

Sam trailed the waiter around tiny tables and glamorous patrons. Many of them glanced up and then continued to stare, taking in her tattoos. Sam fought the urge to cover her collarbones and biceps with her hands. Normally she couldn’t give a fuck what people thought of her ink, but tonight was different. She wanted to belong here, to slide through this fancy restaurant like a knife in butter.

She spotted Scott before he saw her, the sight of him like a punch to the stomach. He wore an open collared shirt with a navy blazer and his thick hair was swept to the side. He looked so lovely and posh she wanted to leave. At least until he smiled, then she was very glad she was there.

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