like the eight millionth time. “You didn’t hate me forever, so I know you’ve got it in you.”
She turns to check her lipstick in the microwave door behind her, a shade of magenta-purple rendered ungodly against her ashy-pale skin. “It wasn’t on purpose—you were behind us, and then you weren’t. Her parents paid your legal fees. Are they supposed to pay for your college, too?”
I don’t want to answer her.
She isn’t wrong—I did forgive Sarah.
I know Sarah wouldn’t have left me behind on purpose.
But Rhodes has been trying to get rid of me for as long as she and Sarah have been friends, and I really have a hard time believing that Rhodes was innocent, too. It would have been too convenient for her if the Conservatory had succeeded in kicking me out.
And plus? I just don’t like her.
I don’t want to like her.
I don’t want to forgive her, because I don’t care about my relationship with her.
“Tubes of lipstick aren’t lollipops. You aren’t supposed to suck on it.” I poke her cheek, and she swipes the extra lipstick off her teeth with the hem of her apron. I don’t say this to her, but I’m so pissed she’s even talking about this right now.
This morning before work was such a weird, delicate thing—we found Rhodes getting ready to dash out the front door at 6:30, mumbling something about chores and darting off to where Griffin was idling at the curb before we could ask any questions.
Sarah was desperately hurt.
I couldn’t decide if I was angry for Sarah or happy for myself.
The rest of the morning has been a gauntlet of keeping Sarah’s spirits up—we painted each other’s nails before we left the house this morning, and I promised that we’d give each other DIY facials and pedicures after work. We’re going to back to my place, where my mom will be babysitting my little nieces and have a tea party.
We’re going to listen to Sarah’s God-awful new music as much as she wants.
I was already exhausted from all the planning by the time we got to work, and yet Sarah was still defending Rhodes’s honor.
“You can suck on it.” She slides me a smile, then turns to open the dishwasher seconds before it starts to beep.
Behind us, an old man sitting at the counter chokes on his country fried steak. His eyes drift downward—down, down, down—and rest on Sarah’s ass as she bends to pull the dishwasher basket out to heft it onto the prep counter against the wall.
The man still has his fork in his hand when I swipe his half-full plate and chuck it into the sink.
“Hope you enjoyed your meal.” I stare at him with as much fire as I can muster, and it takes exactly three seconds for him to lift his eyes from Sarah’s ass to my face.
Pervert.
I don’t say it out loud, but I think it loud enough that it drips from my words.
I smack his receipt onto the counter and turn my attention to Sarah next to me. “How did you even know I was thinking about Rhodes?”
“Because you get this look in your eyes whenever you think about her,” Sarah says, oblivious. She wipes one coffee mug after the next with a damp washcloth. It’s already wet, so it’s doing nothing to wick the condensation from the mugs before she stacks them one at a time on the shelf over our heads. “It looks like you’re thinking about murder.”
“Maybe I am,” I say.
The man and I are nothing but eye contact now—him with his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish, me with my hands on my hips and swelling to every centimeter of five whole feet tall. He’s eavesdropping on our conversation, and he deflates a little.
The man tosses a five and two ones on the table, then a dime and three pennies.
Exact change. He stands, placing an old black-and-white houndstooth fedora on top of his head before he turns for the door.
“Hey!” I call after him, “Are you tipping or not?”
“I didn’t finish my dinner. Ain’t nothin’ to tip, young lady.”
“We’ve gotta eat around here!” I shriek. He’s the only one in the restaurant right now, so it only serves to rattle the dusty blinds that hang over the windows. “You old bastard!”
The tip wouldn’t have been mine. It would have been Sarah’s, if she hadn’t forgotten about him in favor of clean dishes. But still, she’s been buying her own toothpaste lately. If she doesn’t get tipped because