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Oliver looks back down and reaches into the compartment with the letters. His fingers move through them once before he finds the first one.

S.

Heather goes back to my hand.

The cord starts looking like a ticket hanging off the rail during a rush, something somebody already decided has to be made exactly the way it was written. You can hate the order. You can swear at the server who rang it in. You still plate what’s on the fucking paper.

Oliver threads the next letter.

I.

Jamie shifts beside Heather, and her hand moves higher on his thigh. He settles again immediately.

Another bead. Another letter.

M.

Heather turns my hand over, checks the nails she’s already cleaned, and takes the file to one rough corner she apparently missed.

Across from me, Oliver reaches for the O.

“Cute,” I say. “You making me a name tag?”

Heather blows the filings off my thumb. “Something like that.”

Oliver slides the O onto the cord.

I watch it settle beside the others. Fuck this. I’ve had enough of watching somebody else assemble me. “Ben. My name is Ben.”

The file stops against my nail.

Heather reaches into her pocket, pulls out the ruler and turns toward Oliver. “Hand.”

Oliver’s fingers go still around the cord. He sets the bracelet across his knee and gives her his right hand.

Heather strikes his palm. The crack is sharp enough to bounce off the walls.

Oliver’s fingers close once before he opens them again. His face barely changes, but his throat works when he swallows.

I twist around between Heather’s knees. “What the fuck are you doing?”

She takes Oliver’s hand again and turns it palm up. A red line is already rising across the center. She smacks it again.

Oliver hisses through his teeth.

“He didn’t say Ben. I did. Put the fucking ruler here.”

She takes the half-finished bracelet from Oliver’s lap. One pull sends the beads sliding backward off the cord and into her palm. Red, black and silver knock together before she drops them back into the box.

Oliver watches four letters disappear with them.

Heather returns the empty cord to his hand. “Again.”

I want her to hit me so badly I hate Oliver for receiving it.

Oliver reaches for the first bead.

I shove my hand off Heather’s thigh. “Hit me, you fucking bitch.”