Page 103 of Fractured Fates
“No,” I say, sulking as I pick up the next pot. It reeks of gone-off fish and my stomach lurches.
“Talking helps.”
“I don’t see how.”
“Well, bottling this up and destroying cook wear,” she says, snatching this pan off me too, “definitely doesn’t.”
I sigh, resting my hip against the sink.
“It’s Andrew.”
“Oh,” Winnie says, trying her best to keep her face neutral. I haven’t told her about what happened after I left his room on Saturday night. Half of me thinks she’ll confirm I was a bitch to him. The other half suspects she’ll be marching around to his room and giving him a piece of her mind. I have no idea which is the correct half.
“He …” I stare at the point above her head, avoiding her eyes. “He tried to kiss me on Saturday night.”
“Oh,” Winnie repeats, examining my face. When I don’t add anymore, she prompts, “And …”
“And I told him, I don’t like him in that way. That I want to be friends.”
“Okay,” she says, the skin between her brows pinching. “How did he take that news?”
I chew on my thumb. “Well, not exactly great.”
Winnie rolls her eyes and harrumphs. “Asshole.”
“Wait until you hear the rest.”
Winnie shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “I may have heard about the other stuff.”
I stare at her. “What do you mean?”
“He’s telling everyone that you–”
“Slept with him, I know.” I bury my face in my hands. “I thought he was my friend. I was so stupid.”
“You weren’t stupid. Men pull this kind of crap all the time, trust me. Pretend to be your friend, pretend to respect you, pretend they’re one of the good guys. Then as soon as they figure out they’re never climbing inside your panties, wham,” she whacks the pan onto the countertop, “they turn sour quicker than an apple that’s tumbled from the tree.”
“But to say that stuff about me! And then Spencer, in gym today, was at my throat about it all, calling me a slut.”
“Oh,” Winnie says in a way that makes me peek through my fingers at her.
“What?”
“Did you … did you tell him it was all lies and bullshit?”
“Of course I did, not that it’s any of his business, not that I would be ashamed if it were true, but it’s not and that seems … what?” My best friend is chewing on her bottom lip.
“Andrew’s walking around school with a black eye and a busted nose. I saw him heading off to the infirmary.”
“Good!” I snap. Winnie’s brows pinch again. “I’m not going to feel sorry for … what?”
“Guess who gave him that black eye?”
“I don’t know but I wish it had been me.”
“Spencer Moreau.”
“Spencer Moreau gave Andrew a black eye?”
