Page 36 of No, You Hang Up

“I get laser hair removal and you know it.”

“…Get a refund.” I grunt at Mads’ reply and kick at her leg. Lifting my arm once more, I glance down at her before pulling myself up to a sitting position, my head aching.

“What do you two want? And if it’s both of you here at once, should I assume I won’t be able to leave without giving you some heart stopping confession?” Seeing as it’s a surprise to me that the two of them are in my living room after Em used her spare key, I won’t assume this is just a little drop in because they miss me.

“Dishwasher dirty or clean?” Em asks from the other side of the counter, and I look back at her, eyes narrowed, as I try to remember.

“Clean.”

“We’re your best friends.” Mads grabs my hands, prompting me to look down at our entwined fingers. I narrow my eyes, suspicious, and give her a flat, plaintive look.

“Supposedly.”

“Legally.”

“Morally, I guess.” God, I feel gross and sticky. I need to shower, and I’m sure I’m not looking so hot with greasy hair and yesterday’s clothes on. But for some reason, I can’t shake this stupid bad mood that I refuse to call a fit of depression or sadness of any kind.

“So”—Mads surveys my face, looking a little worried under her aloof veneer—“was it a guy? You never told us you had a boyfriend.”

“Or was it because of your family? Did your mom call again?” From the kitchen, Em’s voice drifts over, promising me an easy way out if I want it. I could tell them yes, my mom called again; even though I’ve had her blocked for a week now after the last ‘concerned text’ she sent that read a lot more like gaslighting than actual, legitimate concern.

“He wasn’t my boyfriend.” The words are out of my mouth before I can think to stop them, and I run my hands through my hair with a grimace. “Look, do we have to talk about this? Nothing’s wrong with me, guys. I’m just having an off week. You know?” It’s a lie, and Mads can smell lies like a shark smells blood in the water.

She leans forward, surveying my face, and pulling my attention enough that I glare at her. “Come on, Kai,” she murmurs, reaching out with a hand to squeeze my knee. “Just talk to us. We’re here, and we don’t judge. Well…” She looks up at Em over my shoulder. “I think Em judges. But at least she does it silently, right?”

How do I tell them I’m missing the man we prank called, who then broke into my house and drugged me? A man who showed me a fucking crumb of affection?

How do I tell them I’ve spent the past week trying to talk myself out of this slump and getting more and more disappointed every night he doesn’t text or call or break into my house?

How the hell do I tell them I’ve looked at my phone and considered texting him, because the two visits from Huxley to my house were some of the best nights I’ve ever had. Even without the sex. He was so fun, so easy to talk to. So fucking insane that it was unreal. But maybe something in me is insane too, because now that he’s gone, I miss it.

I can’t tell them I miss a psychopathic serial killer. Especially one I’ve only met twice. So I only give Mads a wan smile and shake my head. “You know I get?—”

“It’s a guy,” both of them say at almost the exact same time, and it forces me to halt in my lie of an explanation. My grin turns to a sneer, and I roll my eyes up at the ceiling.

“You two really are the worst, you know that? If it is a guy, fine. But I didn’t know him for long or very well. So it doesn’t matter and I’ll be over this in the next three to six business days.” If I can’t lie to them, I can at least shrug this off and make it not a big deal.

Because it isn’t.

It really, honestly, should not be a big deal or a bad thing that a serial killer is leaving me alone and not murdering me.

Em appears and sets down the takeout trays of food, along with three glasses of Dr. Pepper. When she appears again, it’s with paper plates and the other two liter bottle, which she sets on the coffee table with a thud. “You get tonight; not three to six business days,” she tells me firmly. “Tonight with tacos and Dr. Pepper. I didn’t get real nachos, but I got queso and chips.”

“Look, I could pour queso on just about any carb-y vehicle and eat it,” I assure her. “So you do not need to explain yourself to me.”

The tacos make everything better. But then again, Tex-Mex food always does. And by the time I’m actually tired from laughing and talking about stupid, everyday shit, I feel a bit better as I curl up on the sofa with my head on Em’s shoulder and one foot thrown over Mads’ lap.

I don’t need a serial killer after all, I remind myself. I have my friends, whatever is left of my sanity, and queso.

Unfortunately, in three business days, I’m not doing too much better. But in my defense, as I tell Mads over and over while she digs through my closet, it isn’t because ofsome guy.

“Look, seriously. I’m over him,” I assure both of them while Em grabs a few things from her makeup bag. Sitting on my desk chair while I watch the two of them, I feel a bit like a hostage in my own home.

Again.

“I mean it. This has nothing to do with some guy. My uh, my cousin called me this week.” That makes both of them pause, and suddenly I’m second-guessing my plan of spilling my guts over the real reason I’m struggling. Well, past that, I seriously do miss Huxley.

“Like, a good kind of call?” Em asks, concern bleeding into her voice.

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