Page 126 of You're so Bad

Can I come talk to you?

Not everything in the world revolves around you, Bianca.

Can it revolve around me right now?

No.

“You’re going to pace a hole through that floor,” Nana says.

She’s one to talk. It’s the kitchen floor that’ll probably give way under her feet. I woke up at three a.m. last night because she was making cookies in the kitchen. They weren’t even good cookies. It was another version of her raw recipe, which would have made Leonard laugh because of course she made his least favorite cookies out of worry for him. She’s got a cake in the oven now, because it’s Monday, Reese’s birthday.

I went to The Waiting Place for an hour or two this morning, but I couldn’t take the sight of Danny’s clay dick, still sitting loud and proud on the floor of my workshop. So I came home, and Nana and I painted the craft room green for the kid because Leonard’s not here to do it.

We don’t even know when—or if—Reese will want to come back. He’ll be here later tonight, along with Rafe and Sinclair, Burke and Delia, and Mira, for a small celebration, but we haven’t talked about what comes next. There’s nothing to stop him from returning to our house now that he’s eighteen—ifthat’s what he wants. But I know for a fact that Rafe and Sinclair’s place is at least ten times nicer and safer. The kid’s been shaken by all of this, especially since he stole some supplies before bumping into Leonard. He could have wound up behind bars, and he knows it.

Maybe he doesn’t want to be here if Leonard’s not. I can understand that.

After Grandpa Frank moved out, the house felt wrong for a while, too big and echoey, but then it shrunk around us again. Now, it’s back to feeling empty. Wrong.

Bean seems to have gone half feral without Leonard, spitting or hissing when things aren’t to her liking.

After Nana and I finished with the craft room, we exchanged a look.

“They’re coming back,” she said stubbornly. “Both of our boys.”

“They’re coming back,” I repeated. But I’m not sure how much either of us believed it. I’m not sure how much we believe it now.

The sound of a clearing throat stops my body and brain in their tracks. Nana’s standing in the living room, eyeing me. Who knows how long she’s been watching me.

“What’d the floor ever do to you?” she asks, raising her eyebrows.

“How long has that cake been in the oven?” I ask. “Did you set a timer?”

“Of course I did,” she says, but she turns to check on it quickly enough that I’m guessing it was a lie.

A knock lands on the door, and Bertie bustles over to it, his little butt wiggling.

My heart lifts, but it’s too early for Leonard to be out. Besides, if it were him, Bertie would probably be sulking instead of doing his little dance.

Sighing, I head over to the door and look through the peephole.

I nearly stagger back, becausewhat the hell…

It’s Bianca.

Apparently, my text message kiss-off didn’t do it for her.

I consider not answering the door, but she’s not the type to give up. I wouldn’t put it past her to knock out one of the basement windows and climb in if we ignore her.

“The cake burned a little,” Nana calls out from the kitchen, “but I have a plan.”

Naturally.

“Bianca’s here.”

About twenty seconds later, she comes out of the kitchen with a giant knife.

“Jesus, Nana,” I say, reaching for the door as Bianca knocks again. “Is murder your plan?”

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