Page 46 of You're so Bad

“It scratched me,” Bianca says vindictively, lifting her hand to his face. There’s maybe a quarter-inch long pink spot, so small it can barely be seen. Her hand is shaking a little, though, as if she knows how pissed Leonard is.

“I’msosorry,” says the blond woman next to us. “I just wanted to pet her. I didn’t mean for anything bad to happen. I—”

“You’re the one who unzipped that thing’s crate?” Bianca says. Her death gaze suggests that this woman, whoever she is, might just be lucky enough to get disinvited to the wedding.

“Yes?”

Bianca walks off without another word, and the woman laughs shakily. “I’m so sorry about your kitten. Can I get you a beer to make up for it?”

Another piece of yarn flies off the basketball pompom and hits her in the forehead.

Thank you, Bean.

“I need to get her out of here,” Leonard says to me. His voice is still dark. His whole demeanor is dark, like a switch has been flipped.

I don’t want to stay either—we made an appearance, played the game. So I nod and gather the kitten’s crate. But Leonard doesn’t put her inside, even though I see a couple of bleeding scratches onhishand. His knuckles are scarred, I notice.

He heads straight for the door, not giving our neighbors the jovial goodbye he usually throws at complete strangers. My heart thumps erratically. I don’t know what to do with him when he’s like this. It’s uncharted territory.

We pass Bianca, who’s complaining about us to Colter, and I wave at them as we go.

“You’re leaving?” Colt asks. We haven’t exchanged more than a few words the whole night, but he has this puppy dog face that makes him look crestfallen over everything. It used to be something I liked about him…until it wasn’t. Because that crestfallen look was always directed at me.

Don’t want to make brunch for me and ten of my best friends? Puppy dog look.

Don’t feel like watching football with me? Puppy dog look.

At least Bertie has the soft puppy dog floof to go along with the expression.

“That’s what it looks like,” I say.

“Are you still coming tomorrow?” Bianca asks.

I don’t know how to answer that. Suddenly, it seems ludicrous for us to be here, for me to be involved in this charade with them. Pride never helped my grandmother—why should it be any different for me?

True, I’ll have to run into them. I’ll have to listen to Bianca whisper to other people about poor Shauna, who couldn’t handle the sight of true love when it dick-slapped her in the face.

Yack.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Leonard says flatly over his shoulder.

I hurry to catch up with him, the empty crate in my hand, nodding to a few other people I know as we leave. Colter’s mother, Shelly, is sitting at a table by the door. Leave it to Bianca to invite her future mother-in-law to what’s supposed to be a bachelorette weekend. I was lucky enough to miss eye contact with Shelly earlier, but this time she catches my gaze. Her blond hair is perfectly curled, and she’s in the same dress as Bianca, in a different shade. It’s a bit of a gut punch, seeing that. I’ll bet they get manicures together too. Shelly was forever after me to get manicures with her, but I never did because of my clay.

Her eyes light up, and she starts to get to her feet, probably because she’s so eager to meet Doc.

Nope. Nuh-uh. No way.

I hate that I still want this woman’s approval. It’s just…she’s the kind of mother who squeezes cheeks, bakes apple pies, and hums with disapproving fondness when people curse. My mother is a cloud of smoke and perfume in my memory, anabsence, and Nana, God love her, isn’t soft. Neither am I, but it’s nice to have someone treat you like that now and then, like you’re the kind of person who deserves to have plush pillows and pancakes on Saturdays and umbrellas held over your head.

I blow a kiss and put on a burst of speed.

Leonard and I are in the parking lot before either of us say anything. He’s still radiating this hard energy—dark and brooding, his arms wrapped around the kitten. We’ve probably left a path of yarn confetti leading directly to my car. Maybe someone will follow it later, only to be disappointed when it leads them nowhere.

“You should probably put her in the crate,” I tell him, because we’ve almost reached my old station wagon, and there’s no way I want the kitten bouncing around inside like a pinball. She’s clearly on a yarn high.

He turns to me, looking at me for almost the first time since we left that table, and I’m floored by the his expression—at once devastated and angry. Bean has a wild-eyed look as she digs her paws into the yarn, probably pissed that the catnip hasn’t materialized. Beneath the streetlights at the edge of the lot, I can see there are little red marks on Leonard’s shirt from where she’s scratched the skin beneath it, but it’s obvious he hasn’t noticed.

“I need to bring her back to the shelter,” he blurts.

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