Page 83 of Unconditionally Yours

Step one in my very spiritual, very artistic healing arc: Call the art center.

When the desk drone answers, I say, “Hi, yes, I’m just calling to confirm who’s modeling Friday. I have a very specific aesthetic vision I’m preparing for.”

Translation: I need to know if that bitch Kira is still breathing the air meant for me or if I need to escalate this politely and with glitter.

The man on the phone sighs like he’s fighting the urge to report me and confirms, yes, it’s Kira.

Fabulous. Stunning. Unacceptable.

I gave her a chance to make the right choice. A little message. A little encouragement. A little artistic terrorism.

And she chose wrong.

Which means: Target run. Shopping for symbolic weapons and sparkly intimidation props that say, “I’m beautiful, unwell, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll back the fuck off.”

The knife needs to be cute. Not just murder-y, festive. Glitter. Hearts. Maybe a pink handle with a dangling Hello Kitty charm.

I swing through the toy section for potential blood substitutes. Glitter slime? Red kinetic sand? The kind of goo that gives parents nightmares and smells like regret and strawberry chemicals?

That’s when my phone buzzes.

I almost come in the slime aisle.

It’s Jett.

The man has texted. He wants to do this now?

I am in public. I am in heat. I am unwell.

His name lights up on my screen, and I short-circuit with the kind of full-body tension that could power an entire emergency grid.

I’m busy, with Rhys-related activities, obviously, but Rhys is playing hard to get, and if Jett texted “I’m outside,” I’d throw myself onto his bitch seat like a debutante with a death wish.

I type back: On my way. Just need an hour. Running errands. Stay hard.

One hour to wrap up Operation Sparkly Knife.

I rush to checkout, burning with purpose and poorly contained sexual static.

And, of course, I get stuck behind Pinto Bean Apocalypse Lady and her Fifty Fucking Cans.

The cashier is scanning them one. at. a. time. Like my god-given right to mount Jett’s motorcycle bare-assed isn’t hanging in the balance.

I stare daggers into the woman’s back. I manifest psychic violence. I imagine the security footage of me leaping over the conveyor belt and double-scanning her beans just to free myself from this bureaucratic purgatory.

I can do this.

Fifteen minutes at Kira’s, tops.

Then Jett.

Then maybe I die.

Glitter in my veins. No panties. Smile on my face.

I finally claw my way out of checkout hell and peel out of the parking lot fast enough to feel holy, but slow enough to dodge flashing lights and felony charges.

Goose Bitch HQ hasn’t changed. Still smells like dryer sheets, low standards, and emotional damage. The buzzer works. Miraculously. I jab it and wait with the conviction of a woman who absolutely has threatened someone here before.