The Rivals - Dylan Allen Page 0,27

municipalities and regulated businesses like property and casualty insurance companies,” she says.

“That sounds impressive as hell, but it’s all Greek to me. Tell me, in plain English, what that means,” I ask her.

“Well,” she sighs. “When I was in law school, I wrote this article for a prestigious law review about the economics of hurricane disaster relief and how wrong we get it. That we focus on the bulk of the money of the issues that are sexy and headline worthy. Like helicopter rescues and helping resettle displaced people in new cities and states. But what about the people who stay? Whose homes aren’t washed away, but simply flooded. The news cameras ignore them. It’s not sexy to sit in your house and suffer quietly. No one wants to tell stories that would force us to really think about how we treat poor people in this country. So instead, we see the people lifted out of their homes by helicopters, moved to entirely new cities, given new clothes, new lives, and that makes us look benevolent. And I’ve been advocating for the litigation of cases that will force the federal circuits to take a position. Or maybe even make it to the Supreme Court.” She shakes her head. “Gah, sorry, I could talk about this all night,” she says.

“I could listen to you talk about this all night,” I confess.

“Because of you, I’ll never get my Nobel Peace Prize. I had so much potential,” she cries and shakes her fist up at me.

“Stop speaking of yourself in the past tense,” I chide her gently.

“You’ve ruined my life,” she yells up at me. “And you know what’s worse?”

“What?”

“Forget it,” she says.

“Forget what?”

“Nothing,” she responds sullenly.

“Okay,” I acquiesce.

“I guess it doesn’t matter if I tell you now,” she grumbles after a few seconds pass. I smile but hide it in my voice when I speak.

“Shit or get off the pot, Confidence. Tell me or stop talking about it,” I say.

“See? You’re rude. But, because I’m stupid when it comes to men, I like you.” She says it like it’s a fate worse than death.

“You do?” I ask, completely surprised and pleased.

“Of course, I do. I saw you and thought, yes, he’s mine.” She leans her head against the wall and gazes up at the stars.

“Did you, really?” I ask. I like the way that sounds.

“Yes. Something is very wrong with me,” she says miserably and I snort out a laugh. “It’s not funny. Every time I look up at you, I think about how much I want to kiss you.”

Heat coils in my chest. “I want to kiss you, too,” I admit.

“Of course, you do, now that I’m lying down here about to die,” she says angrily. I laugh. Again. God, she’s funny.

“I should be inside eating cake, getting drunk, and taking some beautiful stranger to bed. What kind of karma is this?” She wails to the sky and slams her open palm on the ground.

I watch helplessly from this stupid ledge. I feel like total shit.

“I’m sorry about what I said,” I start.

She doesn’t respond.

I haven’t apologized for anything in a long time. I don’t even know if I’m doing it right, but her increased volume makes me think not.

These are my “What would Swisher Do” moments. As soon as I ask myself that question, the answer comes.

“It was shitty, and I was an asshole for no reason,” I call down.

“Yes, it was.” She sniffles and looks up at me over her shoulders which are pressed flat against the rock. “No one’s an asshole for no reason. But, I really hope yours is good, because I want to forgive you,” she says begrudgingly.

I laugh. “You sure about that?” I ask.

“Only because if I get off this ledge, I’ll be able to have the night I wanted.” She scowls up at me.

I like that scowl.

I like her.

Very much.

The fearlessness of her conviction is so fucking attractive.

It’s a very rare trait. It’s the lack of that trait that makes the saying, and there are no atheists in foxholes very true.

But here she is. In her proverbial foxhole, and she’s not finding her faith. Or compromising. I’ve only known four other living people who are like this, and three of them are my brothers. So, I give her a sign of respect that I give very few.

The truth.

“I can count my family on one hand. My aunt, my brothers. To everyone else, I’m a means to an end. And that end usually has something