Our school forces us to fill out these career surveys at two separate points in time: one in year five, and one in year eleven. They assure us that the
surveys are anonymous, so we should feel comfortable being honest, but the results always end up posted on the very public bulletin board with our
names attached right below. Well, the majority of the results anyway. The student who’d written sugar baby for their answer had theirs taken down within an hour.
A quick glance at the board and you can pretty easily spot the emerging pattern. The kid who wanted to be a playwright now wants to be an accountant. The boy who wanted to be an astronaut now plans on becoming a pharmacist. The one who wanted to be an artist now has their sights set on med school. Hobbies are traded for more stable, lucrative, practical careers. Dreams are shattered once the mechanics of going to the bathroom in outer space are taken into greater consideration.
But for Julius and me, our career goals have stayed consistent throughout the years. In year five, we were already researching the highest- paid jobs and the most in‑demand degrees; him, because he craved the prestige, and me, because I just needed the fastest route to the best future for my family. Something that paid the bills on time, that guaranteed stability regardless of what became of my brother’s sporting career, that would give my mom something to brag about to the nosy aunties. So on both occasions, he wrote down lawyer, and I wrote down data analyst.
Abigail’s career ambitions, on the other hand, have jumped all over the place. Her results were a list of crossed-off and rewritten answers, covering everything imaginable: professional taster, professional equestrian,
ballerina, fashion stylist, online dating ghostwriter (which I didn’t even know was a thing), and party planner.
“You know what? I really, truly feel party planning could be, like, a viable career for me,” Abigail says as she backs away from the confetti machine and surveys my transformed living room. “What do you think, darling?”
I’m thinking that there’s a literal confetti machine in my living room. “It’s very, um . . .” It’s a lot. I have no idea what kind of budget Abigail is working with here. Frankly, I’m not sure Abigail understands the concept of a budget; whenever she wants something, all she has to do is ask her parents and they’ll give her two of it. It’s not that she’s super rich or anything.
Abigail and her family are simply devout believers in the value of a Good Experience, of living in the moment. They’re the type to spend a month’s worth of savings for concert tickets to their favorite artist; to book the trip to Italy now and worry about the cost later; to stay in the hotel room with
the ocean view even if it’s twice as expensive as the regular rooms, because
we’re already here, so we might as well enjoy it properly.
As someone who’s a strong advocate of saving up just in case a comet crashes into our house and insurance refuses to cover it, it’s a bit harder for me to enjoy the elaborate bouquets of flowers and chocolate fountain Abigail’s bought for this one occasion. I barely even recognize my own house. She’s dimmed the lights and planted candles around the place so the walls appear to be a shade of pastel pink, obscuring all Max’s muddy sneaker marks. There are also giant cartons of alcohol lined up along the couches. I don’t know where Abigail procured them from, but I doubt her methods were fully legal.
As if my list of worries weren’t already long enough.
“I’m only renting the confetti machine for the night,” she reassures me. “It’s just to set the mood from the beginning. You want people to come in and be like, Wow, I can tell right away from the quality of the confetti
scattered casually but strategically across the floor that this will be the best party I’ve ever been to.”
I let out a snort. “Nobody thinks like that.” “They’ll think that when they see your house.”
“But . . . will they even come?” I worry, pressing my ear against the front door—because it’s a comfortable position, of course. Not because I think this is the most effective way for me to be alerted and prepare myself the instant I hear the sound of footsteps in my driveway. “We said it would start at six on the dot and—” I glance at the clock. “And it’s already five
forty-three.”
“Not everyone is as punctual as you are,” Abigail says. “Your idea of ten minutes late is equivalent to the average person’s idea of twenty minutes early. And trust me, they’re definitely going to want to come. They’d rock up to a serial killer’s house if there was the promise of free booze.”
“That’s highly concerning. You realize that’s highly concerning, right?” She shrugs. “Just how it is.”
“Also—” I pause. Frown. “I’m sorry, did you just compare me to a serial killer?”
“No,” she says, with too much emphasis. “Although, just to put it out there, even if you were a serial killer, I would absolutely stick by you and sharpen your knives.”
“How sweet.”
“I’d also clean the blood off your bathroom floor,” she adds brightly. “I was reading this fascinating article the other day about how to use basic laundry detergents to do just that. You wouldn’t have to worry about leaving behind any evidence.”
“Okay, wait.” I hold up a hand. “In this—frankly disturbing, highly unrealistic—scenario you’ve conjured out of nowhere, why am I murdering people in my bathroom?”
“Well, you wouldn’t be murdering people in your kitchen. That’s just unhygienic.”
I grimace. “I fear this conversation has gotten away from us.”
“Yeah, sorry, what were we talking about again? Oh right. They’ll show up, Sadie, I promise—”
Before she’s even finished her sentence, the sound of voices drifts over from the front yard.
“Oh my god, people are actually coming,” I say, my throat drying. All of a sudden, it feels like someone’s playing kickball with my intestines. The skirt I’m wearing is too tight, the fabric too itchy.
“See? I’m always right.” Abigail smiles. She refastens the sash around her shimmery dress, fluffs up her hair, and gently guides me out of the way to open the door. “Hello, hello,” she calls out. “Please do come in.”
It’s Ray.
He’s rocked up with four other guys from our history class, and as he steps inside in his oversized varsity jacket and pristine trainers, his eyes
sweeping over the party decorations, I experience a moment of pure, heart- stopping panic. What if he isn’t here for the party itself? What if they’ve coordinated some kind of attack on my house? What if they’re going to all start egging the place or laughing at me? But then he sees the alcohol, and he breaks into a grin. “Damn, I knew I’d come to the right place.”
“Welcome,” I say tentatively.
“See, you guys?” Ray calls to his friends as he moves past me. “Told you there’d be free drinks. Let’s get the others over here as well.”
He shoots off a message on his phone, and in hardly any time at all,
dozens of people start pulling up in my driveway. Abigail really was right. I shouldn’t have worried about my classmates not showing, even with my current social status. Soon, there’s so little room left for parking that the
cars are lined up all the way down the street, girls checking their lipstick and giggling as they join the crowds streaming inside.
Nobody eggs my house. Nobody stalks up to me and slaps me. Nobody calls me a bitch. Though I brace myself for the worst every time I open the door, people seem more impressed than anything by the alcohol supply and the decorations. I even manage to get a little smile and a compliment on my outfit from one of Rosie’s influencer friends.
Slowly, my muscles relax.
My heart unhooks itself from my rib cage. My breathing evens out.
Then the door swings open again, and I find myself staring at the last person in the world I’d expect to appear.
“What are you here for?” I ask Julius. I’m too surprised to remember to sharpen my words, to hold on to my grudge from the bookstore. To do anything except stare.
He looks just as confused, as if someone else had guided him to my house. He’s certainly not dressed for a party; he’s wearing a navy blazer that brings out the darkness of his eyes, the natural red tint of his lips. But then his features wrap themselves into a perfect little scowl, and he stuffs his hands into his pockets, straightens his spine. “The same thing as
everyone else,” he says. “I heard there was free liquor so I thought I’d drop by.”
I blink at him. “I didn’t know you drank. Actually, I recall you saying last year that the only beverages worth your time were coffee and mineral water.”
His skin flushes, though his scowl remains in place. “Perhaps I’ve changed my mind.”
“Or perhaps you’re here to make fun of me,” I guess.
“This may come as a shock, but not everything is about you, Sadie. I don’t care whose party this is; I simply didn’t have anywhere better to go,” he says, his voice bored.
“How sad. You’re not wanted in your own home? You have to come bother me in mine?”
He flinches, then rights himself again with cool poise. The twist of his mouth turns cruel. “Well, if I can make your night a little worse, why not? I’ll at least have accomplished something here.”
I lean against the doorframe, my heart speeding. Had I imagined it?
Struck some invisible nerve? Was it something I said? But when I assess his face, his gaze is cold as stone; it seems impossible he could feel any human emotion at all.
“What are you waiting for?” He glances over his shoulder at my front yard, then back at me, his brows raised. “You’re blocking the entrance.”
I realize it’s true. There’s already a line forming behind him, people squeezing past one another to edge closer. I sigh and step back and they spill through the door all at once. A guy I’ve never spoken to before pauses on his way in, catches Julius’s eye, and calls out at the top of his voice so it’s audible even over the thudding music, “Cute outfit, Julius Caesar. Are you planning on heading to a job interview soon? Because with that blazer, I’m sure they’d hire you.”
Laughter bubbles up from around the house.
Julius’s face darkens. “Are you satisfied?” he hisses under his breath, the accusation stark in his gaze. “It’s all thanks to you.”
I swallow. I can’t lie, I do feel bad. No doubt that comment was inspired by another one of my responses to his emails, which had unfortunately been addressed to our entire class. The new nickname as well. “I’ll fix it,” I tell him. “I can fix it. I’ve got it under control already.”
“Do you consider yourself a god or something? How are you planning to fix it?” he demands.
“I’m throwing the party—”
“Hang on. Is that what this is about?” He shakes his head with disbelief. “See, I knew you had some kind of ulterior motive—”
“Don’t make it sound so sinister,” I snap.
“Don’t be so naive about this,” he retorts, just as fiercely. “You really think you can just put on some upbeat music, bring a bunch of alcohol, and everyone will have such a wonderful time tonight they’ll forget you insulted a significant portion of the student body?”
“Well, it’s working,” I say.
At least, that’s what it seems like. People are lounging on my couch, chatting in the corridors, drinks in hands, falling over themselves laughing, their expressions open, relaxed. Happy. The air is warm with the heat of
bodies and the flickering candle flames. Aside from that guy’s one remark, the emails might as well not exist in this space.
“If you truly believe that, you’re about to be very disappointed,” Julius scoffs. “And what’s the point of hosting a party if you aren’t even having
fun?”
I tighten my jaw. “What do you mean? I’m having plenty of fun.” My eyes snap to the group of boys on the other side of the room. “In fact, I’m just about to go and tell those people to stop dipping raw cabbage into the chocolate fountain.”
“Yeah, a real blast,” he mutters. But when I turn to go, he stops me. “Wait.”
“What?” I say irritably.
He hesitates. Runs a slow, self-conscious hand through his hair. “Do they . . . really look bad? My clothes, I mean.”
I’m dumbfounded—as much by the question as the fact that he’s asking
me. “You look how you always look, Julius,” I manage.
His eyes are wary. “And how is that?”
“Completely pretentious,” I say. I shouldn’t elaborate any further, but something about the stiffness of his posture, the rare vulnerability in his face, makes me add: “In a nice way though.”
Then I bite down on my tongue and make a quick exit before I can say anything else I’ll regret.
• • • I should have prepared myself for this.
I’ve heard of it happening at other parties. I’ve seen it play out in movies. I know it’s a popular way to pass the time, especially once the novelty of the chocolate fountain and confetti machine starts to wear off. But I still experience a horrible shock when someone suggests, two hours into the party, that we play a game of truth or dare.
“It’ll be fun,” Georgina says. She arrived about thirty minutes ago, with sparkly butterfly clips in her hair and blue mascara streaked down her cheeks. The word has since spread that she’d been dumped by a girl on her gymnastics team for one of the glamorous equestrians at another school. “I really just want to have fun tonight, ’kay?”
I accepted long ago that my definition of fun tends to differ from the general teen demographic. Fun is baking a new batch of egg tarts, or beating my previous record for the two-hundred-meter dash, or adding my grades to my academic spreadsheet. It’s not roller coasters or getting wasted on a beach or participating in a game that requires you either embarrass yourself or expose yourself to a number of people.
But I’m clearly the only one with reservations.
“Sounds cool to me,” Ray chimes in, and the others are all nodding, sitting themselves down in a circle.
“Hey.” Abigail nudges me. She’s rarely sheepish, but there’s no other way to describe the way she’s smiling. “I’m so, so sorry to do this, but I have to leave early. My sister’s car just broke down on a freeway and
Liam’s been ignoring her texts—yes, again, I know, don’t give me that look
—but are you going to be okay on your own? Because I can, like, figure something else out if you need me to.”
I do need you here, I want to say. Don’t leave me at this party by myself. Please don’t go yet. But the words stick to my throat; I’ve never been good at asking people for things. “No, that’s completely fine,” I tell her. “Go.”
“Give me updates later,” she says, grabbing her purse.
“I’ll message you,” I promise. If I manage to make it through this alive, I add inside my head, dread dragging its ice-cold fingers over my stomach.
The first few rounds of the game are fairly tame. Somebody dares Rosie to text her ex; she whips out her phone without hesitating and sends them a selfie. Somebody dares Ray to do fifty push-ups, which he performs with such flair, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to expose his muscles, that I
have to wonder if he’d arranged the dare beforehand just to show off.
Someone else asks one of the theater kids what her biggest fear is, and she responds with “The realization that life is little more than the slow leak of time until we meet our inevitable demise,” which sends everyone into an uncomfortable silence for a while.
Then it’s Julius’s turn.
Frankly I’m surprised he’s still here. Even more surprised that he’d join the game.
“What do you pick?” Rosie’s friend asks him.
Julius manages to look indifferent when he replies, “Truth.”
Of course he’d pick that, I think scornfully. God forbid anyone force him to do something unseemly, like mess up his hairstyle.
Rosie’s friend giggles. Peers at him under her long lashes. “Okay, then . . . Do you like anyone?”
It has nothing to do with me, but my heart seizes as if I’ve just been electrocuted. I’m blinking too fast, sitting up too straight. I can’t control my body, can’t control the weird, nervous feeling fluttering through my veins.
Can’t stop myself from looking at him as if I can find the answer written over his face.
For the briefest second, he looks back at me.
Then he frowns and shakes his head, once. “No.” His voice is firm. The girl’s face swiftly crumples in obvious disappointment.
Inexplicably I feel a pang of it echo through my own chest.
“How boring,” Georgina complains. “You really don’t like anyone?
There are so many pretty girls in our year level.” Julius shrugs. “You asked for the truth.”
“Fine. Next person, then. Truth or dare, Sadie?” Georgina asks. Now all eyes are on me, and the air in the living room suddenly seems to have weight. I can feel it pressing down on me, crushing my ribs, sealing my next breath inside my lungs.
My throat dries. If I choose truth like Julius did, they’ll most definitely ask me about the emails, and I can’t afford to upset anyone further. All my work for tonight, this whole party—it’ll be for nothing. So I reply, “Dare.”
Ray grins. “Dare, huh?”
Too late, I’m hit with the terrible, sinking realization that I’ve chosen wrong. Walked headfirst into a trap. I can’t even imagine what they’ll think up. This is why I should have been better prepared; I could have thought
through my options more carefully, made up for my lack of experience by doing more research.
Ray ducks his head and murmurs something to his friends, and they hoot with laughter.
“Is it too much?” the girl sitting cross-legged next to them asks. “Nah, it’s all for fun, right?” Ray replies, his smile widening. “And
Sadie’s a good sport.”
Dread simmers through my veins like acid. I wring my fingers in my lap, then curl them behind my back. Nothing helps.
“Okay.” Ray claps his hands together with the pompous air of a game- show host. “We’ve decided. We dare you . . . to kiss Julius.”
My mind shuts down on itself.
I can only gape at him, unsure if this is their idea of a joke, if I’ve misheard. I must have. There’s absolutely no way they would ask it of me. They know our history by now, they’ve read the emails, they know we’ve hated each other for the past ten years—
But of course, that’s exactly why they’re asking.
My gaze cuts to Julius again. I just need to see his reaction. I expect him to look disgusted by the idea, or enraged, or perhaps delighted at my imminent humiliation. But his expression is unreadable. He shows no outward emotion, and somehow that’s worse. Maybe that’s how little it
affects him, how little it means. Maybe that’s how little I matter.
It’s like there’s a stone lodged in my chest, blocking the blood from rushing to my heart.
“Well?” Ray challenges.
I swallow. Force myself to mimic Julius’s nonchalance. “Sure, why not?”
Surprised murmurs rise from the circle. Even Ray looks stunned, like he’d been waiting for me to protest.
And Julius is staring at me, his brows faintly creased. I’ve managed to catch him off guard as well. I feel a flush of victory, not so dissimilar to the thrill of finishing ahead of him in a race.
“Come on,” I say, standing up and smoothing out my skirt, praying nobody can see my hands quiver. It’s just a kiss, I tell myself. It’s just a boy.
Julius hesitates, then pushes onto his feet too. Nobody speaks; they’re all watching us, deadly focused, anticipation building like the wind before a storm. The lights seem to dim further, and the space between us feels like nothing, like twenty miles, like ghost flames.
He’s waiting. For me to make a fool of myself. For me to make the first move.
I let my anger carve away my nerves and close my eyes and kiss him. It’s so fast, so light that I only have time to register the startling softness of his lips before I’m reeling back again.
Oh my god.
I did it.
I actually did it.
The guys are laughing in the background. Someone else is calling my name, but I can’t hear them. This isn’t about them anymore. This is only about us, about the painful beat of my heart, the heat scorching my face.
Julius touches a finger to his lips like he can’t quite believe it either.
Then he straightens. Cocks his head, his eyes black with cool amusement. “You call that a kiss?” he says on a scoff. His voice comes out lower than usual, and I can see the effort in the movement of his throat. “That was barely anything.”
The heat inside me flares higher, incinerating all logic and reservation. I want to slap that smug look off his face, but then I think of something even better.
“What about this, then?” I challenge, and before he can reply, I grab the collar of his shirt and pull him to me.
This time, when our lips meet, I don’t back away. I deepen the kiss, letting my fingers slide up his neck, curl into his hair. For one moment, I can feel his shock, the tension running through his frame like a heated wire, and I think: I’ve won. I’ve proven him wrong. Then he kisses me back,
presses me closer, and something inside me slides off-balance.
It’s not meant to be like this. The thought is hazy, distant, lost to the sensation of his mouth on mine.
Because I was lying to myself before. Julius isn’t just a boy. He’s my enemy. My equal. My point of comparison. He’s the one I’m constantly trying to outrun, to outsmart, to impress. He’s the ever-moving target in my peripheral vision, the person I’ve mapped all my plans around, the start and finish line and everything in between. All my dreams and nightmares are about him and only him.
I can’t concentrate. The most terrible part of this is that it doesn’t feel
terrible at all; not the warm flush of his skin against mine or the firmness of his grip or the breathless sound in the back of his throat.
I want to stay like this. I want to keep going.
As soon as I think it, white-hot panic jolts through me, reviving the little common sense I have left. No. No, I shouldn’t want this. I shouldn’t be doing this at all. I push against his chest and he lets go instantly, eyes wide, hands dropping to his sides as if he’s been jerked out of a daze.
Neither of us speaks, and I’m mortified to find myself breathing hard.
The harsh, uneven sound fills the room.
“Damn.” Someone whistles. “Didn’t know she had it in her . . .”
On a regular day, this alone would make me curl into a ball and die on the spot. But my attention is pinned on Julius.
“Excuse me,” he murmurs, clearing his throat. He won’t meet my eyes. “I’m going to go outside for—” He makes a vague gesture to the door without finishing his sentence, and then he’s striding out, his footsteps quick and urgent, his shoulders tensed.
I don’t even want to imagine how red my face is right now.
“I’m also, um—I need to grab a drink,” I say. My voice sounds odd, choked. “I-I’ve already done my dare.”
Nobody tries to stop me.
• • •
The night air wraps around me when I step outside.
It’s warmer than it’s been for months, and I can find the early hints of spring in our backyard. The budding roses, the sweet scent of fresh green grass, the birds rustling in the trees. A breeze snakes through my hair, ruffles my skirt. The sky is a deep, starless black, but the fairy lights
twinkle over the back porch, glowing pink and blue and yellow, as if the stars have fallen down to earth instead.
Julius is looking up at the sky too, the outline of his frame lit with gold. His arms rest over the railing, and when I step closer, I notice him digging his nails into his palms.
My feet slow over the wooden planks. I pull at my sleeves, self-
conscious all of a sudden. I don’t know how to act, what to say. I don’t even know why I followed him out here.
Then Julius spins around, and so many emotions flash over his face that I can’t begin to decipher them all before they’re wiped clean again, leaving just one: anger. “Why did you have to do that?”
The venom in his voice makes me freeze. “What?” I say, confused. “What do you mean? I— It was a dare. They asked me to.”
“You would kiss someone you loathe just because of a childish dare? Just because other people wanted you to?” Contempt laces his tone. Each word is an arrow, and his aim lands true every time. “Do their opinions really mean that much to you?”
This is so unreasonable, so deeply insulting, I’m rendered speechless. I can’t believe I’d kissed him bare minutes ago. I can’t believe I’d let him pull me close like that—run his fingers over my skin like that—
Something blazes over his face, as though he’s remembering it too. “What’s wrong with you?” I finally choke out. “If you didn’t want to
kiss me, you could have just refused.”
“You think I had a chance to? You grabbed me—”
“You stood up too,” I cut in, my voice trembling with fury. “You kissed me back—”
“It was a natural reflex,” he says. “Not that I expect you to know, but
—”
“Who’s to say I wouldn’t know?” That shuts him up.
He stares at me. Through the brick walls, the noise from the party—the
pounding of music, the rattle of bottles, the hum of conversation punctuated by muffled shrieks of laughter—feels a hundred miles away. Like it belongs to another world, another time, another place. “That . . . wasn’t your first
time kissing someone,” he says. A half question.
“Of course not.” It was only my second kiss, but I’m enjoying this, proving his assumptions wrong. And I don’t want to give him any reason to think that what happened just now was special, that it meant something when it didn’t. It shouldn’t.
“Who?” he asks. A full question now.
I lean over the railing, my head turned away from him. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t,” he says heatedly. “But I want to know.”
“Well, I don’t want to tell you,” I say, just to be difficult. Just to deprive him of something too, after he stripped me of my pride.
“Does he go to our school?” he presses, then corrects himself. “No, that isn’t possible. I’m sure I would have heard rumors about it.”
I stay strategically silent.
“On vacation, then? At camp?” He’s right.
It must show on my face, because he presses in, “It was at camp, wasn’t it? One of those outdoor adventure camps?”
The idea that I would attend a camp to learn fun little skills like woodcutting and weaving and marshmallow baking instead of something academically rigorous is too offensive for me to swallow. “Coding camp,” I say, then see the satisfied curve of his mouth. He’d been baiting me. Of course. He knows I wouldn’t be caught dead wasting my summer on a camp like that when I could be getting ahead of the coursework.
“So a coding camp,” he says, turning this information over on his tongue like it’s something sour. “What’s his name?”
My shoulders hunch in self-defense. “You seem awfully invested in the details for someone who doesn’t care.”
“I already told you, I don’t.” He pauses, his lips sculpted into a sarcastic smile. “I’m curious to know who would have such—peculiar taste—to have dated you. Unless, of course, you’re making it up—”
“I’m not,” I snap, pushing off from the railing and whipping my head around. A misstep. He looks dangerous in the darkness, the scattered lights sharpening the hollows of his cheekbones, the bladed look in his eyes. “His name was Ben. He asked me out after our second seminar together. You can look him up, if you want. He was a swimmer, and he tutored kids during spring break. Everyone said he was attractive.”
I leave out the part where he broke up with me only two weeks after our first date. The night before that, there’d been a game of trivia, and my team had beaten his. I’d gone to him when it was over, holding up the plastic trophy and beaming, expecting him to be impressed, but he hadn’t even congratulated me. When he dumped me outside the lecture room, he’d said it was because I was too intense. Everything’s a competition with you,
Sadie, he’d accused, rubbing a hand over his face. You only care about winning. It just gets really exhausting being around you all the time, you know what I’m saying? I want someone who can, like, chill out.
It’s funny, thinking about it now. Because Julius has also accused me of plenty of things in the past, but he’s never faulted me for being intense. For being too much of anything. For wanting to win. He’s part of the reason why winning is worth it.
“Did you . . . think he was attractive?” Julius asks. The words sound forced out.
I consider this. Yes, I could understand on a general, biological level why others found Ben attractive. He had a swimmer’s body, thick lashes, a smile like the sun. Every time I think about him I associate him with summer: salt air and warm sand and open waves. Nothing like Julius, with
his cold glances and sharp edges. Julius is the dead of winter, ice on your tongue and white frost and the ghost of your breath in a dark hall.
But I don’t tell him that. “Yeah,” I say, lifting my chin. “Of course. And he was a great kisser too.”
He’s silent.
It makes me nervous. “What? Are you jealous?” I say it only to provoke a response out of him, to annoy him.
What I don’t expect is for his cheeks to flush. For his hands to bunch into fists. “Why would I be jealous?” he demands with a sneer, distaste written all over his face. “I would rather die than kiss you again.”
Shame burns my skin. It feels like my whole body has caught fire. The flames shoot through my bloodstream, fill my throat, scald the inside of my lungs. It hurts. It hurts so much that the only way to distract myself from it is with rage. The need for revenge, to hurt him back, hurt him more. I lurch forward and do the first thing I can think of: I kick him. Hard, right in the knee. The sound of impact is even louder than I anticipated, a terribly satisfying thud that vibrates through my own bones.
He lets out a hiss, part pain and part surprise. “Have you completely lost your mind, Sadie?”
“You deserve it,” I say hotly, my blood pounding in my ears. My head is buzzing. Nothing about this night feels real.
“Sadie—”
But I’ve wasted enough time. It was an awful idea to follow him out here in the first place. What had I been looking for? What had I expected from Julius Gong? So when he calls me again—maybe to demand an
explanation, maybe just to throw out another insult—I ignore him. I toss my hair over my shoulder and march back into the house, slamming the door behind me so hard the glass panes rattle.
