Page 68 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

18.

The afternoon has turned to evening in that subtle way it does. One minute there’s late afternoon sunlight streaming through the shades, and the next it’s just the warm glow of the sleek lamps that illuminate Quentin’s living room. Everything has become quietly easy and familiar. We’ve got a Gossip Girl rerun on his giant TV, volume low. He’s got the kind of music Teddy would probably whole-heartedly approve of playing from a speaker. A few hours ago, I pilfered through the pantry and came up with an oversized bag of Goldfish crackers, which I thought only toddlers ate. I alternate between snacking on them and throwing one at him. There are at least three lost somewhere in the recesses of this comfy ass couch. We never grabbed anymore beers, but on some level I admit I feel a little drunk.

“Do you think this really happened, though?” he asks incredulously. “That she poured ridiculously expensive vodka all over his clothes and set them on fire in the bathtub?”

I stare at him over the top of the screen, which has the security guard’s testimony pulled up on it, outlined plainly in black and white.

“I’m baffled as to why you seem to think this couldn’t have happened.”

“The part where she allegedly urinated on his records? Like, hiked up her dress and actually took a piss on them? And blamed it on the cat?”

I press my mouth into a line, bobbing my head from side to side in contemplation. “I’d buy it.”

He laughs. “Come on. That girl? I absolutely don’t buy it. Not unless she was planning to film it for her fans on the internet, which, last I checked, she didn’t.”

“You are highly underestimating the fact that, sometimes, bitches be cray. Like, in real life. No followers required.”

He drags a hand over his face, hoping to hide his laugh. “You did not just say ‘bitches be cray’. Who are you? What year is it? I thought you were a feminist.”

“As a feminist, I have to acknowledge that doing fucked up shit is equal opportunity. Especially in a divorce. Jilted lovers know no gender.”

“So you’re saying you’d take a piss on someone’s records? Set fire to their clothes in the bathtub?”

“Love rewires people’s brains. Who knows what I’d be capable of?” I say. “You know I once heard someone admit to using the soon-to-be-ex’s toothbrush to clean the rim of the toilet every morning for six months leading up to their separation? The toilet. I like to think they all start out as reasonable people, but somewhere along the line something snaps. In the end, I think we’re all capable of being that person who sticks someone else’s toothbrush in the toilet.”

He’s watching me now in a way that is entirely too amused.

“Wow,” he says. “Just… wow.”

“What?” I defend.

“Nothing. Just remind me to hide my toothbrush before you use my bathroom.”

I throw another cracker at him. He catches it against his chest, and instead of eating it, he flings it back at me. It hits me in the face. I snort out a laugh, snatching it from where it has landed against my boobs.

“And here I thought you admired my audacity,” I say, launching it back at him.

He dodges it with a grin. “I did before I thought it might involve my mouth.”

“You only wish I was involved with your mouth.”

“That calls for speculation,” he objects. “And speculating about what I would or would not do with my mouth seems very personal – not professional – in nature. But if we’re speculating, how is it exactly that you think I wish to be involved with you, regarding my mouth?”

I level a coy look at him across the couch, flinging another cracker at him for good measure; this one he catches in his mouth. He crunches it in smug satisfaction.

“Badgering the witness,” I object.

“Non-responsive,” he retorts.

I smirk, and the best reply I can come up with is throwing crackers at him, one after the other, in rapid fire. He deflects, flinging them back as quickly as he can. I don’t let up. He lunges across the couch, grabbing at my hands like he’s attempting to stop the attack. I wrestle away like I’m desperate to continue the attack. Admittedly, neither of these actions probably has anything to do with the attack.

“Permission to treat as hostile?” he laughs, holding my arms.

I writhe and giggle.

In one moment we’re pelting each other with fish-shaped snack crackers, and in the next we’re simmering with the realization that Quentin is on top of me. He has settled between my legs, with his hips against mine and his hands pinning my wrists, so that he’s hovering all strong and sexy right above me.

I meet his gaze with a slow smile. “Permission granted.”

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