Page 31 of The Revenge Game

My fight-or-flight response had kicked in, waiting for his face to transform into the sneer I saw a thousand times as a teenager.

But while Justin seemed taken aback by my words, he hadn’t reacted with disgust or revulsion. Instead, he’d dismissed my sexuality like it was nothing.

Then he’d insisted I stay to watch some TV with him.

My heart settles as I watch the comedian act out an American confidently asking for directions versus a British person apologizing for existing while getting lost. “Americans are like, ‘Which way to Big Ben?’ while British people are like, ‘So terribly sorry to be such a bother, but I appear to be having a slight geographical uncertainty…’”

Justin sits on the other side of the couch, half watching the screen and half watching me, and every time I laugh at one of the jokes, he brightens like someone’s adjusted his contrast settings.

It’s like he really cares about what I think.

I cling to my memories. Remembering his harsh laugh that time Connor deliberately knocked my laptop off my desk,sending pieces scattering across the floor like technological confetti. Justin hadn’t been the one to do it, but his laugh cut deeper than the actual damage.

Then there was the time Justin spotted me browsing a graphic novel with a gay protagonist at the school book fair. He didn’t say anything at first, just nudged Connor and nodded in my direction with a knowing look. Later, when I was checking out, Connor “accidentally” bumped into me, sending my selection tumbling to the floor. And Justin had been right there to sneer, “Required reading for you, right?” loud enough for the line of students behind me to hear. I left the book where it fell, retreating empty-handed.

And the thing is, I deliberately wore my glasses tonight rather than contacts, and just like when he saw me today in the hallway, he still hasn’t figured out my true identity.

How is it possible that someone who featured so heavily in my high school nightmares doesn’t even recognize me when I’m sitting on his couch?

Despite being the punchline to his jokes for four years, I apparently wasn’t important enough to make it into his long-term memory.

But despite my constant replay of memories, I find it hard to reconcile the Justin from high school with Justin the rescue cat owner, lavishing affection on his pets. Justin the guy who makes guacamole from scratch, who fumbled with the remote when he was trying to find comedy clips about US/UK differences to make me laugh.

The comedy clip finishes and Justin turns to me.

“Hey, do you want to stay for dinner? I’ve made some chili, and I made way too much like normal, and it doesn’t really freeze well, so do you want some?”

The way Justin speeds through his words makes me blink. It’s almost as though he’s nervous. Which is ridiculous. Why would Justin feel nervous around me?

“That is, if you haven’t eaten yet?” he finishes.

“Uh…no. I haven’t eaten yet.” I push my glasses back onto my nose. “I was planning to have a microwave dinner that the packaging optimistically callsrestaurant quality cuisine, but I’m fairly sure my taste buds would probably classify it as a crime against food.”

I’m not lying. I’ve been existing on microwave meals since I moved into my apartment. I know there’s a chance I’ve been taking the authenticity thing too far, but I haven’t wanted Justin to ever question how Drew, the lowly IT technician, manages to afford Uber Eats from top restaurants every evening. Suffering through microwave meals is a small price to pay to keep my revenge plot intact.

A smile slides onto Justin’s face. “Well then, it’s probably my public service to save you from a microwave dinner and insist you stay for chili.”

My mind swirls. Should I accept a dinner invitation from Justin?

I mean, I accepted his invitation to have a drink tonight because I thought it would be weird if I didn’t. There’s no good reason why Drew the new IT guy at work, a fellow American, wouldn’t say yes to a drink from his colleague.

But now he’s inviting me to stay longer.

Can I handle spending more time with him?

But I’m still trying to puzzle my way through the contradictions between the Justin I knew in high school and who he is now.

Maybe gathering more data is a good idea.

“Okay, I wouldn’t want to stop you from doing your public service duties,” I say slowly.

Cassie butts her head against my hand because, in my mental scramble to process Justin’s dinner invitation, I’ve stopped petting her.

Justin watches me resume with a small smile. “I’m impressed how much Cassie has warmed to you. She usually treats visitors like they’re trying to steal state secrets.”

“Well, I’ve perfected the art of looking nonthreatening. It’s a skill I developed along with my inability to cook.”

Justin laughs, and I try to ignore the flush of satisfaction that goes through me.