Page 75 of Feel Free to Scream

He’s looking at me over the edge of his book.

My grandmother drones on about the grant, everything it entails—a private room, weekly appointments with a professional for months after—and repeats her belief: “This proves good things come to good people, my darling. God blessed me.”

I manage not to laugh to her face.

“How about you, sweetheart?” she finally asks.

I glance at the screen. “Dinner starts in like, three minutes—with my housemates. I have to go soon. But I’m good. I just got a job—babysitting a lovely girl.”

I decide not to tell her it comes with a car. It’s not normal, and she’ll question that.

“And I’ll come next Friday, grandma.”

“Oh, I will be out of it for most of the day, you know. But if you insist. Let’s talk about your boyfriend, young lady. He told me you haven’t been in touch with him either. Sweetheart, just because you’re in another state doesn’t mean you should neglect the people who love you like that. It’s not fair to him.”

“I’ll talk to him soon,” I assure her, lips pinched. “Got to go! Wouldn’t want to be late.”

As she despises tardiness, her need to lecture me is at war with her desire for propriety. “Well, enjoy your dinner with your roommates. But talk to Noah today.”

“It’s already ten your time. Noah’s likely going to be asleep by the time I finish dinner. But I will call him tomorrow,” I relent reluctantly. Before she can add anything, I say, “Bye!” and hang up.

I sigh deeply. Next to me, Keller snorts. “Let me guess. Feeling guilty about enjoying a good old cock in the ass, so you’re not dealing with the boyfriend.”

I glare at him. “Yes, actually. Isn’t it normal?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never cheated on anyone.”

That raises my hackles. “I’m not?—”

I pinch my lips together.

Because he’s right. Technically, I’m cheating on Noah.

“I’ll break up with him Friday,” I grumble. “It makes sense to do that kind of thing in person.”

“Sure, if you want to give him the opportunity to rage, guilt-trip, and insult you,” Keller responds lightly.

I shake my head. “He wouldn’t do that.”

“He’ll do exactly that either way, hence why you’re avoiding the issue,” he declares, closing his book, and getting to his feet. “We’d better get going. I think Claudio made pasta for you.”

The abrupt change of subject annoys me. He’s not letting me refute what he’s saying. “What makes you so sure you know my boyfriend more than I do?”

His blue eyes seek mine. “I’ve read all your messages, little ghost. His to you, yours to him, and also his to other people. He doesn’t respect you, or like you much, and he has a history of manipulating you into doing what he wants. So he’ll do all that, and you know it. Ergo, avoidance.”

“Youinsult me,” I counter. “You call me a cum dumpster, a slut, like I’m some sort of object you can use.”

“You’re a chick in a relationship—with someone else—letting me use you. So, I call it what it is.” He smiles. “Let me know if you’re ready to change that label.Afterthe asshole’s no longer an issue.”

Leaving me slack-jawed and speechless, he saunters to the elevator. I have to jog to catch up with him before the doors closed.

He’s still looking amused, and I just huff in annoyance.

I hate that he has a teeny, tiny bit of a point somewhere beneath the haughty, arrogant condescension.

Asshole.

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