Page 56 of Cloudy With a Chance of Bad Decisions

George’s eyes stormed. A hurricane of a thousand different emotions, swirling, ebbing, rioting in the depths of his gaze.

“You know…if that’s your ex and he’s not leaving you alone…” I kept my tone carefully neutral. “I can help.”

“I didn’t say yes to your hare-brained “practice boyfriend” scheme.”

“Pro-bono,” I promised. “On the house. No schemes attached.”

“Doing your civic duty?” George sighed, fingers tapping anxiously on the lid of his pickle jar.

“Offered in good faith,” I swore. It was difficult not to reach out and yoink his phone out of his hand so I could see what had ruined his mood. I managed. But only barely.

“And if I were to accept your…no-strings-attached offer…” George frowned. “What would that…entail?”

“Depends on the severity of the infection.” I paused. “Or should I say…inf-ex-tion?”

George rolled his eyes, but he was amused.

“You’ll have to let me see your phone so I can properly diagnose.” I held a hand out. A beat passed as George glared at my palm like he expected it to grow teeth and bite him. Then…with an anxious puff of air, he handed the phone over.

“The password is 102219,” he sighed. I arched a brow. “My cat’s birthday.”

“Right.” It was even more difficult not to laugh. But this situation called for the utmost seriousness, so I schooled my expression as I typed in the code. The main screen was a photo of what had to be the ugliest—and cutest—cat I’d ever seen. All white fur with blue bug eyes, and what I guessed to be a permanently annoyed appearance, much like his owner. “What’s his name?”

“I’m not telling you,” George growled.

“Why not?”

“You’ll laugh.”

“I like laughing.”

“Yeah, well. I don’t like being laughed at.” George’s hands twitched, like he was about to yank his phone back, so I stopped teasing.

“One sec.” I opened his texts. There were four unopened messages from a guy simply called “Brendon.” The ex, presumably, seeing as they were the only texts in his entire phone that were untouched. It was difficult not to snoop. The most recent text, aside from Brendon’s, was right there—to a woman named Missy, and all it said was:

George

I hate you.

I could only assume Missy was the dildo-planting roommate.

Opening the texts from Brendon, my good mood vanished. Scrolling,scrolling, I passed hundreds and hundreds of thinly veiled pleas for attention. Insults. Backhanded jabs. The occasional outright abusive statement. Things that made my fucking blood boil. They evidently worked together, as interspersed between each biting remark were work-related questions.

My grip on George’s phone tightened to the point of pain, and I had to take a second to calm down before I snapped the damn thing.

I may not know George well, but no one—and I mean no one—deserved to be treated like that.

“Seems to me like he can’t let go,” I said after a tense minute of silence. “How long have you been broken up?”

“A year,” George answered. He’d wilted, head back against the headrest, his eyes on the pickle container on his lap. Well that answered my question about why the last year had been shitty.

“Have you ever shown anyone these?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.

George shrugged. “Why would I?”

“Because it’s…fucked up, George. Especially if you work together. He shouldn’t be sending you this shit.”

George shrugged again. “It doesn’t matter.”

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