They must be fans, and fans, I’m fine with. Pictures, I’m fine with. I’m even fine with one of them writing what I’m assuming is her number on a piece of paper and handing it to him. What I’m not fine with is him tucking it into his pocket and reaching forward to play with her necklace.
Part of me wants to march right up to them and stake my claim, wants to let the girls know that Joel is mine and if they don’t want to get their eyeballs clawed out, they’d better stop looking at him. But I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of turning me into that kind of girl, especially not when he’d just continue being a man-whore and driving me crazy. Instead, I grit my teeth and abandon my cart right where it’s parked, walking from the grocery store with my head held high but my molars threatening to grind each other into dust. I climb into my car, back out of the spot, and drive all the way home. When my phone beeps along the way, I don’t bother looking at it. I don’t check it until seven beeps and two missed calls later, after I’ve slammed my apartment door behind me and have grounded myself on the couch.
Where the fuck are you?
Joel’s latest in a long line of texts—which went from being confused, to concerned, to angry—just pisses me off. My phone receives the brunt of my temper as I type back, Home. Looked like you got another ride, so I figured I was off the hook.
What the fuck are you talking about?
I don’t bother responding. Anything I say will just make me sound jealous—because I am jealous. I hope Joel fucks those girls and makes them a breakfast they all choke on.
Did you seriously leave me at the fucking grocery store?
Not responding.
This is so fucked up!
Not responding.
You’re fucking crazy!
I text him a GIF image of Marilyn Monroe blowing a kiss at the camera before I turn my phone on silent and toss it on the coffee table.
When Rowan calls me, I’m angrily biting into an unlucky pickle.
“Did you really have sex with Joel and then leave him at the grocery store?”
“He brought it on himself,” I insist, and she starts laughing.
I hear Joel yell in the background, “I TOLD YOU!”
“What did he do?” she asks.
“He dragged me to the grocery store, and I left him alone for two minutes—two freaking minutes, Rowan—and he goes and gets some other girl’s number.”
She yells at Joel, “You took her grocery shopping and got some other girl’s number?!”
“She just gave it to me!” he yells back.
“And you took it?!”
“He’s an asshole,” I say, biting off more of my pickle.
“It’s not like I was going to go home with her right then or something!” Joel insists, like that makes a difference. I can practically hear Rowan’s eye-roll.
“Joel, you should probably stop talking,” she orders.
“Why?”
“Because if you don’t, I’m going to smack you and it’s going to hurt.”
“Whatever,” I hear him say. “Dee is crazy.”
I hear a loud WHAP! and then an “OW! WHAT THE HELL!” Loud laughter follows—I’m guessing from Adam and Shawn.
“One more word, Joel!” Rowan warns, and I smile around a mouthful of pickle. “Hold on,” she tells me, “I’m going outside.”
A door opens and closes. Footsteps. “He’s such an ass,” she finally says. “I’m sorry he did that.”
“Don’t be.”
“You seem okay.”
“I’m always okay.”
A short pause, and then, “Are you over him now?”
“I was never under him.” Unless last night counts . . . and the dozens of times before that.
“You know what I mean. Are you two done?”
“For now.”
A longer pause, and then, “Are you still coming to Mayhem tomorrow?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I say, already planning what I’m going to wear to make Joel sorry he ever even considered calling another girl.
Rowan sighs heavily into the phone. “You’re so not done.”
Chapter Six
IN A WAR of social combat, there is one key to victory: Act like you’ve already won. In high school, it worked on bitch cheerleaders who were angry about their jock boyfriends calling me after school. Now, it’s going to work on the one guy who is too stupid to realize he should never try to do better than me because I’m the best there is.
In my shortest skirt and skimpiest top, I walk into Mayhem like a general prepared to accept the surrender of his enemy. I have my armor—the sequins shining on my top and the black boots stretching up to my knees. I have my weapons—the cleavage squeezed into my plunging neckline, the miles of skin shimmering between boots and my skirt, and the smooth black nail polish glimmering under Mayhem’s muted lighting. And I have my war paint—my shadowy eye makeup, my thick black lashes, and my moist pink lips. I’m dressed for the kill, and I’m prepared to draw first blood when I spot Joel at the bar and nearly stop dead in my tracks. Rowan and Leti stop walking to glance back at me, but I only hesitate for half a step before resuming my march.