The Initial Insult - Mindy McGinnis Page 0,77
year, and apparently guys who wouldn’t look twice at her before are now honing in. But I’m all out of good for hers. I make my way toward them in time to see him punch her number into his phone, then give her ass a pinch as she walks away.
“Hey,” I say, coming up beside him.
“Hey,” he says, slipping his arm around my waist, smooth as hell. It’s been here a lot lately—with clothes both on and off.
“What was that about?” I ask, nodding toward Jessica.
“Nothing, just talking,” he says, avoiding my eye.
“Just talking?” I repeat, but he only nods. “Like maybe you’ll talk later, too? Because I saw you get her number.”
His arm is gone from my waist, his eyes not kind anymore. “That a problem?”
“I . . . well . . . ,” I sputter. He was supposed to be caught. Supposed to be guilty.
“Look, maybe I wasn’t totally clear with you about what’s up with us,” he says, leaning down so that his voice is in my ear. “I’m not a one-girl kind of guy.”
“Oh,” I say, my stomach bottoming out. He’s saying it so casually, like it’s not a big deal. Like I have no right to be angry. Maybe I don’t. I mean, I never did ask him if we were dating. I just let him do . . . well, basically whatever he wanted. As long as I got an Oxy first.
“I mean, that’s cool, right?” Patrick says. “You didn’t think that we were . . .”
“Yeah, no, yeah, I mean, duh,” I say, all the words I didn’t have for Gretchen coming out now, tripping over each other, not making sense. “I mean, whatever.”
He nods. “Cool.”
Sure, it’s cool. Everything’s cool. Everything is awesome. I walk back over to the girls and find my drink.
Chapter 61
Tress
Sophomore Year
My phone is ringing. At three in the morning. That can’t be good.
“Hello?” I’m breathless after scrambling for it, the security light from the animal pens lighting up my room.
“Tress?”
There’s a sob, a broken noise. It’s Felicity. She’s not okay.
“Where are you?” My heart is in my throat, and I’m up, pulling on shorts even though I’m not wearing underwear, throwing a sweatshirt on with no bra, rifling through the mess on the kitchen table for Cecil’s keys.
I am coming. I will save you. Everything will be okay.
“He’s seeing other girls,” she says, her voice dull now.
“What?” I stop, watch an empty beer bottle roll off the table, breaking on the floor.
“Patrick,” she says. “I slept with him, and I guess I thought, I don’t know . . . I thought maybe he was, like, actually into me, or whatever.”
“Where are you?” I ask again.
“What?” She sniffs. “I’m at home.”
At home. In her house. On a nice street. With her family.
“Why are you calling me?” I ask, my voice hard as hell this time.
“What? I . . .” She trails off, confused.
“Why are you calling me?” I repeat.
“You said . . . you said your number was the same. You said call if I needed anything. You said call . . . anytime.”
“If you need drugs, Felicity,” I seethe into the phone. “Call me if you need drugs.”
“Oh,” she says, small and soft.
“Anytime,” I say.
And hang up.
Chapter 62
Tress
“He’s bad news,” I tell Felicity, two years too late.
I should’ve said it on the path, I should’ve said it at the first party I saw him sniffing around her. I should’ve said it. I didn’t. That’s on me. And maybe her pill problem, too.
“You think?” she asks, the words slurred, the laughter that follows unhinged.
“I always thought . . .” My voice isn’t strong, either, the thoughts slippery, the consonants and vowels needed to bring them out into the world something I can’t conjure. “I always thought maybe you and Hugh . . .” I finally manage.
“Really?” Her voice brightens a second, like maybe it’s an interesting topic. “I mean . . . I guess . . . I always thought . . . maybe you and Hugh.”
Chapter 63
Felicity
Tress starts laughing, and there’s an echoing answer from upstairs, weaker now. I don’t know if it’s because sounds have been going in and out for me in the past few minutes or if people are dropping off upstairs.
“No.” She shakes her head, spinning the trowel in her good hand. The other one is turning purple, the tape she bound her wound with much too tight. “No,” she repeats. “Not me and Hugh.”
“Why not?” I argue. “I mean, he’s cute, and if