Page 27 of Better Hate than Never

Settling back against Bea’s dresser, I savor the ticklish comfort of his paws against my palm. He peers up at me. He’s obscenely cute.

Unlike someone else. Who, with his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, his shirt collar still smelling vaguely of churro from a little girl he held and tickled, melding too well with the spicy warmth of his cologne, is not remotely cute. He is high-handed and pushy and very goddamn good at tangoing and holding me so tight it felt like the world could spin off its axis, straight into the universe, and I’d still be steady.

“I don’t care how Christopher dances with me,” I tell Cornelius. “Or what he thinks of me. I don’t care that he keeps staring at my messy bun and my ratty clothes.”

I’ve been telling myself for a very long time that I don’t care what Christopher thinks of me. Because if I do that, then all that time he ignored me growing up doesn’t hurt so much, hisrelentless disapproval of the path I’ve made for myself doesn’t sting so badly.

Most of the time, at least.

Cornelius gives me a skeptical blink and yawns.

“Hint taken,” I tell him. “I’ll let you get back to your fun.”

Sitting up, I return Cornelius to his cage and watch him waddle toward his little sandbox to scratch around. “I wish I had your prickles, Cornelius. It would make it so much easier to protect myself.”

My fingers slide along the screen, tracing the arch of his quills. “But my prickles areinside. And those seem to hurt a lot more. Me more than anyone, I think.”

Cornelius turns around and peers my way, looking vaguely concerned.

“Don’t worry. I’m just tipsy and getting pointlessly in my feelings.” I stand, a little ungainly, feeling the shot with Margo along with the cocktail I pounded when I got to the party creeping up on me. “I’m going to go to bed and sleep it off.”

After turning off the light in Bea’s room and traipsing back across the hall, I fall into bed, curl up, and thankfully, not long after, sleep wraps around me, though it’s anything but peaceful.

It’s filled with dreams. Terribly vivid dreams.

A warm, strong body, guiding mine from a dance floor, down the hall. A hand holding me steady, until it touches me where I ache and thoroughlyunsteadies me.

A deep, decadent dip to a bed.

A new, feverish dance that lasts all night long.

•EIGHT•

Christopher

If the tango incident at Sula’s birthday party affirmed anything, it’s that maintaining my distance from Kate is the only way to survive this.

Especially if I want to keep my toes.

And yet here I am, strolling down the sidewalk from the nearest train stop to the Wilmot sisters’ apartment.

Walking right toward her.

To my credit, it’s been ten days. I’ve stayed away for a week and a half, busied myself with work, declined friend-group invitations. For ten days, I’ve surrendered the world that’s mine. I was so sure ten days would be more than enough time for Kate to grow restless and leave town, like she always does.

I was wrong. And like hell was I going to just stay away forever, let her take from me the people who are like family because she’s decided to stick around.

Even though it’s just game night, I feel like I’m about to head into battle. So, like any sensible person who’s possibly marching to their doom, I’ve brought a right-hand man.

“Christ, it’s cold,” Nick mutters. Icy wind hits us like a hard uppercut that I lean into, cold and sobering. Nick’s shoulders climb toward his ears. “How are you not freezing your nuts off?” he asks.

I slant him a wry grin. “Have you ever seen someone built like me complaining of being cold?”

Our reflections glance back at us from a building’s darkened windows—wiry, mid-height Nick, and my tall, bulky frame like my dad’s. Tonight, my reflection could be his double, with my face hidden in shadow, the only part of me that favors my mother obscured. It makes me do a double take.

“Stop checking yourself out,” Nick says.

I shove him away, making him laugh. “I wasn’t, you ass.”

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