Page 89 of Love Her

“It was this, or I put her in the trunk, Sable,” I muttered.

“I know, I know?—”

“He alone?”

“We’re about to find out—two minutes.”

“Did he see your last text?”

“I don’t fucking know. But—he’s here.”

“Done,” I said, slouching down in the Charger’s driver seat in what I hoped appeared to be a bro-ish way, as a gold Porsche Panamera rolled up.

My profile ought to look like Zane’s man, from behind—but Zane did not get out.

I could feel him contemplating the scene, like a big dog sniffing around a potentially pissed off cat.

“Don’t hate me,” Sable whispered in my ear. “But take your phone out of your pocket, put it on speakerphone, and crank the volume.”

I did as I was told immediately, and my phone blasted, “Get up here man! I hope you brought your Go-Pro!” in someone else’s voice.

“Fuck you,” Zane said, getting out of his car at once.

“I told you I had good stuff!” the voice inside my phone protested with a laugh.

From the Charger’s lower profile, I was able to see Zane walk up, but he couldn’t really see me—not until he ducked his head down to look in the passenger side. “Stop fucking around, Kellan—” he said—right before he saw my gun hand, leveled at him, right on top of Ramona Samson’s sleeping head.

He tensed—and ran—and I leapt out of the Charger to run after him.

52

LIA

10:18 PM

Heeeeyyy soooooo—just thought you should know—a few thousand people saw me naked earlier today!

Metaphorically.

On camera!

Except—I still had clothes on.

But I talked about my scars.

I turned my phone off after. For like a whole hour. Just sat there. Let it exist in the world.

And you know what? People were nice. Can you believe that? I cried. And not the bad kind.

Anyway. You’d probably rather die than be on Instagram.

(And, yes, this means I made a new Instagram account. Don’t fuck it up for me.)

But I think you’d also be proud. In your own quiet, broody, 'I feel things in the garage alone' kind of way.

10:45 PM

I wish you’d text me back.

---