Page 45 of Selfie

His deep blue-green eyes look dark and sleepy. Maybe from the travel, followed by a long night. Or, maybe it’s the booze. The smell of him—the one I crave—is currently overpowered by something sweet and sharp, like sugary gasoline.

“What do you mean, a gift?” he asks.

“Everything that comes out of your mouth is accidentally insulting.” Clamping my eyes closed, I shake my head. “You lie like it’s your native tongue. You’re a jerk without even trying. It’s impressive, really.”

A small smirk starts on his face but quickly dissipates when he sees I’m not joking. “I was only trying to say?—”

“You don’t know anything about me or my life, which is fine. I don’t want to share a single part of me with you. But I am a great assistant. I’m sorry you don’t want me here. Too bad for you, I’m not going to roll over and die just because you asked me to.”Oh no.I have to leave right now before the tears start. They’re more out of frustration and fatigue than anything else, but Nathancan’tsee me cry.

I yank off my apron and chuck it to the side of the counter, the movement causing me to brush against him. Just that little touch, and my clothes are on fire.

“I’m going to the restroom, then I’ll finish cleaning up the kitchen.” I pause to give him an opening to apologize, or maybe even just explain. I would happily settle for an explanation as to why thisjackassis so put off by me.

But no. He stays quiet. There’s remorse on his face, but nothing else comes out of his mouth. His eyes tell a different story, dark with something that looks dangerously like desire swimming in his frustration. Maybe he’s as fed up with our situation as I am.

“Please don’t be here when I get back.”

I barrel through the doors, and my tears start to pour, my body still humming from the conflicting feelings. Every time this man seems in reach…

He slips away.

15

Spencer

“For the love of all that is holy, Spike! Shush!”

Monday morning, I sink deeper into my living room couch, praying for a swift, painless death to take me. That’s how drained I am. I’d rather suffocate, face buried in this stiff couch, than go to work this morning. Partially because I don’t want to see Nathan’s stupid face. We haven’t spoken since Friday night at the restaurant. But more concerning, I don’t think I’m coherent enough to pretend to do my job today. I have lost two nights of sleep in a row now due to a plump, lovesick guinea pig who has endless endurance for squealing at all hours of the day and night.

Spike continues to cry as I chug hot coffee, not even feeling the heat in my throat. I’m so tired, the nerves that are supposed to warn me when my flesh is on fire have officially shut off.

Unable to take another second of his screeching, I peel myself off the couch and force my legs to move. After grabbing a baby carrot from the fridge, I shove it through the wire of his cage. “Here, you little chubster.” I’m a few more glugs into my coffee before I drop to my knees so I’m eye level with his cage that’s resting on the coffee table. “I wasnotbody-shaming you,by the way. You’re supposed to be round and chubby, and it looks great on you. But if chubby is a trigger for you, I can say fluffy moving forward.”

“Oh my gosh, did you just apologize for body-shaming a guinea pig? You’ve officially gone cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs,” Charlie sasses, entering the living room. She maneuvers around the edge of the couch and drops to her knees next to me. She stares at Spike like a proud mama. Except I’m the one feeding him, cleaning his cage, and getting him fresh water. I’m also apparently the only one affected by his incessant whining. Charlie has slept like a baby all weekend.

Examining my little sister’s face, I see way too much glitter. There’s a light brush of blue on her eyelids. She also smells like sickeningly sweet peaches. I’m too tired to have this argument with her right now. Once I get a good night’s sleep, she and I can go a few rounds about my minimal-makeup rule.

“Did you give him another carrot?” Charlie asks accusingly.

“Obviously,” I snap. “He’s not screaming at the top of his lungs, which must mean he’s eating.”

“He’s not supposed to have more than one or two pieces of carrot a week, Spencer. They’re too high in sugar. It’s going to hurt his belly.”

“I’m going to hurt his belly,” I mumble under my breath. I just threatened a three-pound piggie-rodent. Sleep deprivation has me unhinged.

Ignoring me, Charlie opens his cage door and scoops him up into her arms. She sweetly nuzzles him and he’s instantly calm. Whenever I pick up Spike, he goes straight Wolverine, trying to escape. I have the scratch marks up my forearm to prove it.

“Did you decide if you’re renaming him? I’m a big fan of Snickers.” I’m not only referring to the candy bar. Spike is a Ridgeback Abyssinian guinea pig. Charlie made me sit through an informational special on guinea pigs. Guess how manydifferent types there are? Way too freaking many. The piggies are usually classified by their hair patterns. Ridgebacks make it look like he has a little mohawk, which is I think why they named him Spike. It’s not a terrible name, but his mohawk is understated these days, and his coat is a blend of rich, dark chocolate, warm caramel, and stripes of vanilla cake. He should be named after a dessert.

“We’re not renaming him.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s two. He already knows his name, don’t you, my sweet boy?”

Oh good Lord, Charlie. If you love him that much, change his bedding every now and then, hm?“Guinea pigs don’t know their names,” I tell her.

Charlie cradles Spike in one arm, then whips out her phone from her back pocket. She waves it in my face menacingly. “Wanna bet? I’ll ask Siri right now.”

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