She pulls back, the biggest, sweetest smile on her face. “I’msosorry for the misunderstanding. Toodles!”
Then she spins on her heel, and as if choreographed, all her minions do it a second later, and they prance out of the cafeteria.
I shiver a little, but really, after everything I’ve been through in my life, what can some Barbie bitch do to me?
Caleb and Marie sit back down at the table, and everyone takes a breath.
Underneath the table, I reach over and squeeze Marie’s hand. “Thanks,” I murmur under my breath while the rest of the table is back at it, loudly joking about the best Judge Judy quotes. “How did you even know she?—?”
“Tyler Morrison was showing the blurry picture on his phone to anyone who would look,” she whispers back.
Shit.
I glance around her to Caleb, who meets my eyes guiltily before laughing at a joke Kevin makes. Back to playing the role of Perfect Kid.
An image I just almost put a serious stain on. Fuck.We’ll have to be way more careful.
I bite my bottom lip. Because I know that even now, I don’t plan on stopping. Usually, with a guy, once I’ve slept with them, it’s like an answered question.
With Caleb, though, each time only makes me hungry for more.
“I saw an episode where she asked a guy if he was stupid or just acting stupid,” Marie says, jumping into the Judge Judy conversation. “And he said, ‘Acting,’ and she said, ‘Well, you’re doing a great job.’”
The table erupts in laughter.
“She once told someone their IQ was room temperature,” Miles adds. “In Celsius.”
“Okay, new game,” Kevin announces. “Best Judge Judy insult. Go.”
“‘Do I have stupid written on my forehead?’” Sara offers.
“‘Beauty fades but dumb is forever,’” Miles counters.
“‘If you live to be a hundred, you will never be as smart as me,’” Derek says. “Classic.”
They all look at Caleb expectantly.
He thinks for a second—longer than usual. His eyes go distant for a moment, like he’s running through options. Calculating which response is the right one.
And I wonder if, for once in his life, he’ll drop the ball. If he’ll be anything less than perfect.
But that’s not the Caleb way, is it?
His fingers tap on the table one more time—one-two-three-four—and then he grins.
“‘You’re like a hemorrhoid. A pain in the ass that won’t go away.’”
Perfect delivery. Perfect timing. Perfect Caleb.
The table erupts in laughter.
But I saw the moment before. The calculation. The effort it takes to be that perfect all the time.
TWENTY-NINE
HARPER
The night airbites at my bare arms as I lean against the back porch railing, watching Z exhale a thin stream of smoke into the darkness. Helen’s perfect backyard stretches out before us—all manicured hedges and strategically placed garden lights. Even the fucking grass looks like it’s been individually groomed with nail scissors.