Page 94 of The Fine Art of Faking It
“Yeah, but they deserve it.”
“Uh-huh. Don’t get me wrong. You probably couldn’t find a Mooner who wouldn’t agree with you. However, what did this town drum into our heads every day since kindergarten?”
“Believe in karma and do no harma.” Eden recited. “What are you getting at, Sammy?”
“What if you’ve spent a decade and a half fighting what you really want?”
“You think I want Davis?”
“Um. Duh. You’re Eden Moody. You don’t accidentally sleep with anyone.”
“Maybe it’s just really good sex. I mean like superhuman amazing sex.”
“Stop rubbing it in, jerk.”
“I’m having a life crisis. I can’t be held responsible for the word vomit coming out of my mouth.”
“Look, babe. If you like Davis, date Davis. Forget the B.C., forget your parents. And, most of all, forget high school. Stop being held hostage by the past.”
“What if holding grudges is my thing?” Eden asked the question that turned her stomach to acid.
“What if you have control over what your thing is? What if your thing is Davis’s thing? And by thing, I mean penis.”
“You’re awfully wise when you’re woken up at 9 p.m. on a Tuesday night.”
“They all come to the single, Rocky Road-eating vet for knowledge bombs,” Sammy sang.
“I need to think,” Eden decided. She needed some time, some space, and a lot of brain power.
“Then get out of the bathroom before someone drops a deuce, and go think.”
36
“How would you two like to buy some rice flour cranberry almond orange zinger muffins? Only eight dollars apiece!” Amethyst Oakleigh announced cheerfully from the table in the Farm and Fresh vestibule. She was bundled up in a mint green parka with a rainbow beret and scarf distorting most of her face. Wilson Abramovich sat next to her in a puffy vest and an ivory turtleneck sweater.
The doors opened, and a rush of cold night air barreled inside followed by a tropical wave of heat from the overhead heaters. They’d missed this little fundraiser when they entered the side door and Davis wished they’d gone out the same way they came in.
Eden stopped and stared at them. “What are you raising money for?” she asked pleasantly, the death threats in her blue eyes going unheeded. Davis knew that benign tone. It was something to be feared, and those poor B.C. bastards had no idea what hell was about to rain down on them.
“You know what? We just had rice flour muffins for dinner,” he said, wrapping an arm around Eden’s waist. “We’re going to leave. Right now.”
Davis steered her toward the exit before she could show the Beautification Committee exactly what they could do with their rice flour muffins.
She took a deep breath of the crisp winter night. “Thanks for that. Apparently, I have a problem with my temper and holding grudges… and never moving forward from the past.”
She sounded so forlorn he reached down into the bag and fished out the pack of Sour Patch Kids he remembered her loving in junior high. He handed them over, and she clutched them to her chest like a beloved stuffed animal.
“I have to know. What were the razors for?” He’d left those on the shelf, but he had purchased the whiskey while she was in the bathroom.
“I was going to shave that weasel’s eyebrows off if he didn’t print a retraction. I could easily give him a real reason to think I’m unhinged,” she seethed.
“Uh-huh.” Davis tucked her into the passenger seat of his SUV and crossed around to the driver’s side. “How about the whiskey?” he asked, settling in behind the wheel.
“Just thirsty,” she pouted.
He started the engine and looked at her. “We’re a team, right?”
She shrugged, ripping open the candy and shoveling a handful into her mouth. “Yeah, I guess.”
