“No, I mean it with mild trepidation,” Jayla says.
“Liking Dick Grayson doesn’t make him problematic, Jay!”
“It means he’s got poor judgment.”
“I’m just gonna go,” he says, standing up.
I lean around her to grab his sleeve and yank him back down. “Eat. She’s kidding.”
“Mostly,” Jayla says, giving him the evil eye before laughing. “I’m Jayla, by the way.”
“Ridley.” He blows out another breath, looking uncomfortable.
“Welcome to the family, I guess. Try not to suck, okay?”
“I—” Ridley starts, but Jayla’s already turned back toward me.
“Come on, Jubi—if we hurry, there’s still enough time to hit up the thrift store before it closes.”
“I’ll catch up with you, okay?” I give her my most pleading look. “I’m still eating.”
She rolls her eyes and slides her chair out. “Fine. Stay here with the Grayson-lover.”
We sit for a while after she leaves, eating our Chinese food in silence. I fight the urge to break it with a random fact, because that’s a me-and-Bats thing, and it feels like cheating to do it here with Ridley. He’d probably think it was weird anyway.
“So, she’s great,” he says finally. And I burst out laughing because he sounds so genuine that I can’t even tell if he’s being sarcastic.
“Her heart’s in the right place. She’s just very protective of me and my moms.”
“Moms?”
“Oh, come on, you had to have known. That doesn’t bother you, does it?”
“Nope,” he says, shoving his chopsticks into one of the boxes in front of him.
I pull out my phone and check my texts. The quartet chat is still going bananas—something about Shostakovich now—but still nothing from Bats.
“Got someone better to talk to?” he asks, ducking his head a little.
“Apparently not.” I sigh. “But I do have to catch up with Jayla. She’ll kill me if I don’t.”
“Can’t have that.”
“Right?” I stand up, grabbing my coat. “And just so you know, since you’re so curious, I’m not seeing anybody.”
He chokes on his rice as I walk out with a smirk. Score one for pushing the boundaries.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Ridley
I FLICK OFF the bathroom light and turn the water to its hottest setting. Gray calls them my “sadbaths.” But I kind of hate that. It’s too close to Sabbath, and if I’m going to worship something, it’s not going to be at the altar of depression and soap scum.
But there’s just something about hot water and scorched skin and a quiet dark room that’s . . . soothing. I squeeze my eyes shut and pretend it’s my worries swirling around the drain instead of cheap hotel shampoo. Dad still hasn’t bothered to stock my bathroom, so I’m relying on shit I stole from the casino. But still, it’s fine.
I can’t label what I’m feeling right now, but my head’s been spinning since yesterday when Peak gave me that book, shoved it into my hands like it was no big deal. Like I deserved it just because I wanted it. Wait, no, not Peak, Jubilee. Jubilee Jones. I’m trying so hard to keep them separate.
It’s harder than I thought.
I lean my head against the wall. I thought it would feel different to be back in this house. I don’t know what I expected. Like I would be better somehow if the water beating down on me was from pipes that run underneath the floor I learned to walk on instead of the floor of a new-construction house with no history and heating problems. And yet.
And yet.
I just feel more alone. If this isn’t my home and that isn’t my home, do I even have one?
I finish up, wrap myself in a towel, and pad across the floor. I wriggle my toes appreciatively when the cool tile of the bathroom gives way to the plush carpet of the hallway, leaving damp footsteps in my wake.
My ex-therapist suggested I keep a running list of good things to look at when all seems lost. I