Page 38 of Mexico Can Choke On It
I give the coffeemaker two smacks—the magic touch to make it cooperate—then pour in the last handful of grounds from the bag. It gurgles like a cat hacking up a hairball, and the brew that comes out is basically brown water. But screw it. I can’t afford the double espresso from the corner café today. Belt-tightening mode: activated.
While it wheezes, I grab a mug from the drying rack—the one that says:I Survived my Childhood: Where’s my Fucking Medal?Camila gave it to me after I told her about my dad walking out and leaving us penniless.
I yank my Contract Law textbook off the kitchen counter where it’s been marinating in a pile of unopened bills and dirty dishes.Focus, Petra. Your shit’s not going to pull itself together.
Lately, I’ve been reading everything I can about law. At first, it was just curiosity—could I hack it? Did I have what it takes? I had no intention of wasting time and racking up mountains of debt, only to find out I’m as suited for law school as a penguin in the Sahara.
I’ve learned this about myself: I thrive on the warrior side of law. I love fighting for people who can’t protect themselves, building cases tight enough to survive a black hole, and then verbally throat-punching asshats with arguments so tight they squeak like dollar store chew toys. The rush of a powerful debate is addictive—more potent than caffeine—and it’s where I come alive.
But reading lengthy legal texts or conducting extensive research? I’d rather eat broken glass. These headache-inducing paragraphs with their convoluted, deliberately obtuse language are pure torture.
Good thing I’ve got stubbornness in spades. I’ll read the same page fifty times if I have to. Break it down. Wrestle it into submission. Make it my bitch.
I sink onto the couch, curling my feet under me with my book balanced on my knees. As I set my mug on the coffee table, I spot it—Bryce’s bowl, sitting next to mine. The same one that held mac and cheese a few hours ago. And there, neatly folded at the end of the sofa, is the blanket I’d tossed over him.
Before I can stop myself, I scoop up the blanket, press it to my face, and inhale.Fuck—it smells like him.That distinct Bryce scent that’s haunted me since high school. Crisp pears and sandalwood. Expensive and intoxicating.
A memory trickles in—seventeen-year-old me stealing his navy sweater after he left it at our house. I hid it under my pillow for months, obsessed. I cherished the way it smelled like him. But eventually my mom found it, washed it, and ruined my life.
I hurl the blanket across the room, but the damage is done. All I’m thinking about is his chest from last night—broad and muscled and right there under my fingertips. How he looked at me with those intense blue eyes. How his gaze kept dropping to my breasts when he thought I wasn’t looking.
When his breath caught after my thumb grazed his nipple…Oh my God!Every cell in my body lit up at that tiny point of contact.I’m getting wet just thinking about it.
“Study, you thirsty disaster. Study!” I command myself, smacking my forehead with the textbook.
I open the law manual to the chapter I left off on—prenuptial agreements.
“Fuck me with a spatula.”
Prenups. The magical legal shield my mom didn’t have when my father swapped us out for a newer, shinier family. She was already barely scraping by, so hiring a divorce attorney—let alone a good one—might as well have cost a million dollars. She got steamrolled. And by the time it was over, we were left with nothing.
I bet Bryce will have a prenup the size of the Oxford English Dictionary when he marries Amanda. Pages and pages of legalese making sure the family’s priceless art collection stays safely out of his wifey’s manicured clutches.
The thought of Bryce getting married sends a sharp pain to my ribs.
“Nope. Hard pass. Let’s see what other kind of legal misery we can learn about instead.”
Next chapter: post-nuptial agreements.
“What in the rich people fuckery is this?”
I lean closer to the small print, reading out loud in my best courtroom voice: “Similar to prenups, postnuptial agreements are legal contracts created after marriage that determine how property and finances will be handled in the event of divorce or death. To be valid, they must be signed by both spouses, and notarized, blah blah, soul-crushing blah.”
Wait. Nowthathas possibilities.
A wicked little grin curls across my mouth as I picture it. Perhaps some light tasing would persuade dear old Dad to sign one?Surprise, jackass! Half that mansion you bought your new, younger wife? Yeah, Mom’s coming for it with blood in her eyes and receipts in her hand.
I grab the highlighter and start mauling the page. “This is how we launch the revenge tour.”
KNOCK KNOCK.
I freeze.
Shit.
There’s only one person who knocks around here—and it’s not the good kind of knocking.
It’s landlord-knocking.
