Page 59 of Hate Me Like You Mean It

“It’s a sex game,” I mumbled, too tired to worry about my filter. “Remember the conqueror rule?”

If the two delegates were the king and queen of the same suit, they’d seize command of the greater court, their suit would become law, and their sin would touch everything.

“I could rig it,” I went on. “Have him pull the king of hearts, give myself the queen. It would be mayhem.”

Sexy mayhem, but mayhem nonetheless.

“Can you believe we came up with this game in high school?” I said, failing to pry my eyes back open. “Imagine hearts rule, and you play a wrath card. Lust and punishment combined, for however many minutes. How many PG-13 dares or commands can you think of that would fit that criteria?”

Gluttony would translate to body shots. Or food being licked off body parts.

With greed, you could demand to be pampered with pleasure.

The game was rated so R, it felt wrong to think too hard about it in public.

Dom said something else, something that my head flagged as too crucial and important to forget, but I couldn’t fully make it out before losing the battle and sinking into the snuggly depths of sleep.

19

UPDATE: WE JUST GOT BACK FROM THE PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE AND I AM SO MAD MY HANDS ARE SHAKING.

LOCH NESS IS A CALAMITY AND A BLIGHT AND I’D RATHER HAVE A STINKING PILE OF MILDEW COVERED TURDS SITTING NEXT TO ME FOR THE REST OF THE YEAR I AM NOT JOKING. MY NEW GOAL IN LIFE IS TO BECOME A SCIENTIST JUST SO I CAN INVENT AN INFECTIOUS DISEASE AND NAME ITALICELOCH NESS AND THEN INVENT ANOTHER ONE AND NAME IT LOCH NESS II UNTIL THERE ARE HUNDREDS OF THEM AND EVERYONE WILL FINALLY UNDERSTAND HOW EVIL SHE IS.

I AM BUILDING A WALL BETWEEN OUR DESKS TOMORROW. I DON’T CARE WHAT MS RIVERS SAYS.

BYE.

I wokeup cradled in a giant cloud of cushiony white fluff.

It was so disorienting, yet so comfortable that I didn’t immediately feel the need to panic. Instead, I took my time, stretching my body out before gently folding the puffy duvet aside. I sat up, squinting against the bright daylight as I surveyed my surroundings.

I was still in Dom’s bedroom, in his bed, alone. It was late morning, and whatever evidence of last night’s game may have been left behind when I’d fallen asleep was long gone. The room was in pristine condition, my clothes were dry and neatly folded, and my phone was plugged in, waiting for me on the nightstand. Along with a note.

Went out.

Extra toothbrush, towels, and toiletries for you in the bathroom. If you’re going to burn the house down, do take the cars out first. I think we can both agree that the children are innocent and don’t deserve to be dragged into our dysfunction.

I didn’t know why this was the thing that finally pushed me over the edge, but it was.

I bit down on my lip, mentally shooing away the butterflies swarming my rib cage. My palms were clammy, my heart was flipping and flopping like a fish yanked out of water, and the horrifying, dreadful sensation of giddy anticipation was making me sick.

I tore the note and chucked it into the bin, massaging at the center of my bloated, fluttering chest as I made my way to the bathroom. Splashing cold water on my face didn’t help. Tearing off the bandages didn’t make me forget. The crisp shower didn’t do shit. The breathing exercises were useless.

No matter what I did or how hard I tried, I couldn’t recenter.

Ever since that day in Cory’s office, I’d felt this deep, lurking sense of jittery exhilaration and dread creeping under my skin. For two weeks, I’d been left on the cusp of crying. And laughing. And screaming and shouting and jumping and falling and wanting and denying and denying and denyingand denying.

It’d been aggravating, but manageable. I’d been able to wrestle it into submission, stomp it down until it was an annoyance instead of an all-consuming typhoon.

But something about that note, combined with the last few days, was making me unravel. And it was terrifying.

I needed it to stop. Now.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I said in a flat, borderline professional tone when Dominic finally reappeared. It was late afternoon, and I’d been cleaning the fridge like Rosie used to do every other Wednesday, when the front door opened. The swift echoes of his steps had grown quieter at first, almost like he’d been headed in the opposite direction, before they’d paused and reluctantly changed their mind. “We need to talk. I know we said?—”

“Are you drunk?”

My train of thought sputtered to a halt. I frowned, trying to make sense of the question. “What?”