Page 69 of You Owe Me

“I’ll give you the truth,” she whispers. “But not while you’re still pretending yours doesn’t exist.”

Then, without waiting for a response, she turns and walks away.

No door slam. No dramatic pause.

Just distance.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Rumor has it, she flooded the apartment.

Maverick

The first thing I hear is slurred yelling.

Not just yelling—commentary. Colorful. Loud. And unmistakably directed at no one in particular.

“Gravity is a myth,” Ainsley announces like she’s breaking exclusive news to a live studio audience. “You hear me? Mythological! Like unicorns. Or men who text back after they come.”

I blink up at the ceiling, still half-asleep, but not enough to ignore the sound of water sloshing.

“Also,” she adds, voice wobbling with the kind of theatrical venom that can only be fueled by 1:00 a.m. existential dread or alcohol, “Maverick Lexington is a communist. He won’t let me live my life. He hates joy. And pools.”

Ah.

So we’re doing that tonight.

I sit up slowly, rubbing the sleep from my face. My head throbs in sync with the secondhand shame rolling in waves from the other side of the wall. I don’t even check the time. There’s no hour when this would make sense.

More water sloshing. More slurred opinions.

“He thinks he’s so smart. With his investment metaphors and his eyebrows and his… abs.”

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed.

This is going to be a nightmare.

Again.

She’s supposed to be in bed. Not… outside. Not near a body of water. Not monologuing like a drunk villain in an indie musical.

I cross the apartment and unlock the balcony door, already bracing for whatever version of chaos she’s summoned this time.

And there she is.

In all her aquatic, wine-soaked glory.

She’s floating in the middle of a plastic kiddie pool. The same one I explicitly told her not to use in the parking lot last month after she nearly got hit by a Honda Civic while sunbathing on a floatie shaped like a crustacean.

So, naturally, she dragged it onto our balcony.

Which is somehow worse.

She’s wearing an old tank top and bikini bottoms, one sandal, and my Harvard Business School hoodie, which I only wear to piss off pretentious people. She’s half submerged, sprawled across an inflatable duck. A box of Franzia dangles from the ledge, connected by what looks like a makeshift wine straw. Her hair’s twisted in a bun that’s mostly fallen out, and she’s using one of my legal textbooks as a coaster.

“Are you drunk?”

She lifts her head slowly. Blinks at me like I’ve asked her to explain quantum physics.

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