Page 72 of Revenge Cake

“Shit. I’m being a fucking dick right now, huh? I’m so sorry. I’m just not thinking right. The last thing in the world I want you to think is that I’ve been using you.”

She chuckles humorlessly. “Logan, this is the definition of using someone. Your whole friendship with me is the definition of using someone. You wallowed over your ‘heartless’ girlfriend—your words, not mine—and I’ve been your cheerleader making you feel better. You’re using me to make yourself feel better. Do you see how that works?”

“Shit.” It’s all I can say and I feel like an even bigger dick.

We don’t speak for a while. She does a small circle around the room while I stare at the wall, wondering how I’ve been such an asshole moron for the last two months without even realizing it.

“Keira, I’m so sorry. I know it’s inadequate, but I really don’t know what else to say.”

Her expression softens. “It’s okay. It’s not all your fault. We both have co-dependency issues.”

I don’t know exactly what she means, but I don’t linger long enough to find out. It’s clear she wants me out of here. This will probably be the last time we see each other.

On my drive home, a triumphant thrill courses through me for doing the right thing, but it’s short-lived.

What am I going to do? Call Lani up and say, “Hey, I almost fucked Keira, but I decided not to at the last minute. Can we get back together?”

And that’s when it really hits me.

I lost her.

She’s gone.

The despair that descends over me is a physical pain. I tighten my grip on the steering wheel to keep myself from hunching.

How am I going to get through this?

CHAPTER 30

Logan

I remember thinking the world had changed the day my Grandma Louise died.

She was Lauren’s and my favorite grandma, and our designated babysitter every time my parents went on long trips. She used to let us stay up all night watching Cartoon Network and Disney Channel. She bought us all the junk food my mom never let us eat, like those pizza Bagel Bites and Flaming Hot Cheetos. I used to sit at the kitchen bar stool while she cooked or cleaned. She’d make me a sugary kid drink along with her routine five o’clock cocktail, and I’d talk endlessly about who knows what, and she would listen. And not in the way adults pretend to listen when they talk to kids, offering a perfunctory, high-pitched “really?” or “no way!” at timed intervals. She would really listen.

She asked me questions. She gave me advice.

I remember running outside right after my mom told us she died. I didn’t cry at first. I just wandered around the backyard in a daze, arrested by the belief that the whole world was sad.

It had to be sad. I could see it with my eyes. Our backyard trees looked sad with their long palm leaves swaying mournfully in the wind. Lauren’s dirt-crusted lightsaber looked sad and alone and forgotten under the garden bench. I was sad, and the world was sad with me, and I knew with what felt like certainty that we would all be sad forever.

Just like now.

I was wrong of course, because it was just a feeling, and like all feelings, it faded with time. I hardly even think about Grandma Louise these days. And yet…

A part of me wonders if this feeling is more than a normal part of grief, but something reserved only for the loss of what can never be retrieved again. Something that changes you forever, so that even when you don’t feel the grief anymore it’s still there, because it’s a part of you.

I hear a knock at my bedroom door, but I don’t feel like moving. Armaan has been nagging me for hours to get my ass out of bed. I’ve only gotten up twice since last night when I made my zombie-like tread from the front door straight to my bedroom. Once this morning to pee, and then again around noon to pour myself a glass of whiskey.

I couldn’t even drink it.

I don’t have the energy.

“What?” I ask as I stare at the ceiling, barely able to raise my voice through the door.

The door opens and Armaan peaks his head through. “Let’s go get drunk.”

“I don’t feel like it.”

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