Page 48 of The Revenge Game
The knock at the door interrupts my agonizing. My heart does this embarrassing flutter thing as I move to answer it.
I open the door and…damn.
Damn.
Justin’s wearing a fitted navy blazer over a white shirt that somehow makes his shoulders look even broader than usual. His hair is artfully tousled, designer sunglasses pushed up on top. The overall effect is somewhere between British gentleman and GQ model, and I have to grip the doorframe to steady myself. Which is ridiculous. I should be beyond getting weak-kneed over a well-tailored blazer and a pretty face.
Especially this particular pretty face.
Justin, meanwhile, is doing his own scan of me, which leads me to discover new and exciting levels of self-consciousness I didn’t know existed.
He raises his gaze to mine and holds it just a beat too long, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
“You look great,” he says finally.
Shit. I’m pretty sure my whole body is flushing at that compliment. I adjust my glasses, trying to recover some semblance of composure.
There’s nothing for me to worry about. Being friendly with Justin is simply part of my revenge plan.
As we travel on the train together, I can’t help thinking that this change of tack is actually quite brilliant.
My initial objective was to make him feel some of the same social embarrassment he caused me in high school.
But I’m not just going for punishment anymore.
I’m going for guilt.
I want Justin to feelguiltyabout the way he treated me. I want him to see me as a real person, someone who didn’t deserve to be treated the way he and his friends treated me.
The more he gets to know me, the greater the likelihood of that, right?
Like with all good plans, my tactics are simply evolving with the circumstances.
Justin sits beside me on the tube, chatting easily about the players we’re going to watch today. When we reach our stop, he unfolds himself from his seat with his usual athletic grace, making even the awkward train-exit shuffle look effortless.
“So, are you ready to eat overpriced strawberries while watching highly paid athletes argue with line judges?” he asks me as we head up the stairs.
“Sure. I’ve prepared by watchingYouTubetutorials on how to look thoughtful while having absolutely no idea what’s happening.”
Justin’s laugh is deep and genuine.
My stomach does this weird flip thing that I’d really like to blame on the train journey but definitely can’t. It’s the same feeling I got when my first line of code actually worked, that surge of achievement mixed with disbelief.
“I’m so glad you agreed to come,” Justin says as we exit the station. “Wimbledon is just so…British. It’s like this weird British theme park where everyone’s obsessed with grass and proper etiquette.”
“Obsessed with grass?”
“Didn’t I tell you about how they measure the grass?”
“No. You failed to share that fact.”
“It’s true. The grass has to be precisely eight millimeters.”
“I’m beginning to feel slightly worried about the obsession with measuring stuff around here.”
“Don’t worry, if they assess you, I’m sure you’ll measure up,” Justin says.
I roll my eyes, and he gives another laugh at my reaction.
