Page 23 of Up In Flames

I can’t take it anymore. Placing my container and spoon on the coffee table that spans the center of the U-shape, I rise abruptly. “Um, bathroom?”

Sampson cocks his head, considering me, before he says, “Down the hall behind me, second door on the right.”

I’m already moving. If I stay next to him any longer, I’m going to start asking questions—questions I don’t want answered.

I count doors, and on the second one, I push inside. The bathroom is beautiful, all white marble and decorative, handmade tile. I expected a guest bath, I suppose, something small, but this one has a soaking tub and a wide wall of glass shower, along with double sinks and elegant fixtures. Even the towels are soft, glaringly white, and fluffy. Expensive.

The mirror reflects my disarray. On the outside, I look like I normally do. I guess I’m pretty, but nothing all that special. I’ve got that girl-next-door charm, or so I’m told. My eyes are usually my best feature, but today they look like storm clouds, more gray than blue. Because inside me, everything I don’t want to think about keeps bubbling up, and if I don’t get control, I’m going to just blurt out things I shouldn’t.

I don’t know how long I stare at myself in the mirror, but when the knock sounds upon the door, I startle like a rabbit. “Just a minute.”

But instead of waiting—like a normal person—Sampson twists the knob and strides right in. “Are you okay?”

“Are you insane? You don’t just walk into a bathroom when there’s a woman inside it. Plus, I locked it.”

He holds up the skeleton key. “Figured you wouldn’t let me in if I didn’t open the door.”

Sure. His skeleton key works when my father’s didn’t. My life is so screwed up.

“You figured right. What is wrong with you?”

“You, apparently.” He closes the door softly behind him. “I figured you’d be done with anything embarrassing by now. You’ve been gone fifteen minutes.”

Is it possible to die of shame? I almost did two days ago. Here I am, about to set the record again.

Sampson continues, oblivious to my mortification. “I set Nicholas up with some video games, so we have a few minutes to talk.” He leans his bloody big body against the portal, so there’s no chance of slipping by him, and crosses his arms over his chest. “So, talk. Tell me why you hate me.”

“Other than the obvious at this moment?”

He shakes his head. “You were twirling that pint like you wanted to squash something, and staring at me like you hoped it would be me. And I don’t get it. I know why I should hate you, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out why I’m taking the sharp end of your wrath. All I did was walk in on you getting busy with two guys, but then, you were doing them in a very public place. Not my fault.”

And that’s it. All my rage comes pouring out, and without thinking, I walk up to him and shove him in the abs, the tallest part I can reach. “Fuck. You.”

“I wish you would, which is the crazy part.” He remains unmoved by the shove that took all my strength. “Lay it out for me, Nina. It’s time to get this over and done between us. Not the fucking part, though I’m game. That comes later, after you tell me why you hate me.”

“You big, stupid… arghghghgh!!!!” The sound flows out of me as I shove him again, my voice getting shrill by the end of the meaningless word.

I try to tamp down on the feelings spiraling inside me, but they’re too strong. I’ve suppressed them for years, but being next to him, having him finger me into oblivion, just brings it all back.

“Use your big girl words.”

And that’s it. I haul back and punch him, landing the blow on his hip. Instantly, pain radiates up my hand.

He raises an eyebrow. “Is that all you’ve got?”

And that’s it. A red film drops over my eyes. I begin pounding on him with my fists, ignoring the pain in my hand, willing him to be doubled-over by my assault—but he just stands there.

I punch him just above his dick in what should be the soft, flaccid part of his stomach—and he doesn’t move.

“Get it out, Jelly Bean,” he says softly. “Let the poison run.”

He’s such a… there isn’t even a word for him. If I could reach his face, I’d slap him across his smug expression.

But I can’t hit him where it counts for some reason. Probably because he was just released from the hospital.

But still, I just keep pummeling him until my arms give out, remembering his face as he looked at me that day so long ago, seeing again how he turned from me whenever we’d cross paths in the hallways afterward… like I was diseased. He hurt me so deeply that day, and afterward, and that pain must have lived silent inside me all these years because now it’s shouting like it never left. The seed of it has grown into an enormous tree when I thought it dead and buried. It’s growing right out of me and into him.

So when my arms are too tired, I kick him in the shin. Damn him. I hate him. I hate him so fucking much.