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“You know the answer to that.”

I do know. And I know the sex is only part of it. There’s a lingering in his touch that goes past sensuality into affection, an edge of panic in his unanswered texts that is more than the loss of his go-to booty call.

“Good,” I say. “Keep your phone close.”

I hang up and slide my hand under the mattress to double-check that the knife I nicked from the kitchen is still here. I suck my lip in when the blade snags under my thumbnail, yanking my hand back to inspect the bloody half-moon forming. In my other hand, my phone buzzes with a text from Isaac, something he didn’t have the guts to ask me over the phone.

The sister thing, is that bullshit? Is your heart yours or what?

. . . maybe it’s yours ☺

Like the sound of that.

Talk later. Call whenever.

I drop the mattress, pressing down on my thumb until the drop of blood squeezes out the tip, my skin angry and purple. I wipe my finger on the clean sheet, leaving behind a streak of red, and glance back at the text.

Yes, this is probably going to hurt him.

But it’s going to hurt me a hell of a lot more.

I. Things I Know

A. This will work.

II. Things I Don’t Know

A. N/A

thirty-three

“Four-car pileup! Four-car pileup! Jackpot!”

I hear Layla yelling as I cross the hall, and open the door to find Brandy spinning a throw pillow over her head and making siren noises.

“Shut your hole. I’m trying to read,” Layla says.

I move Brandy’s foot to make room for me on the couch, but she promptly puts her legs back up once I’m sitting, her prosthetic a surprisingly heavy weight across my knees.

“Nice,” I say, and she shrugs.

“Okay, breaking news,” Layla says, while scrolling. “Four-car pileup on the eastbound . . . resulting in—wow—looks like two were life-flighted, three in critical condition . . . no names yet though.”

Brandy puts her phone away. “Can’t really know anything then.”

“No,” Layla agrees. “But, like, statistically speaking our odds have to go up the more people involved, right?”

She looks to me for confirmation.

“Sure,” I say. “But—”

“No buts,” Brandy says. “You still want to do Scrabble?”

“I don’t know,” I tell her. “I’m not feeling all that great.”

“None of that,” Layla says, flipping her tablet shut. “I want to see you spell Quetzalcoatl.”

I shake my head. “That’s a proper noun; you can’t use those in Scrabble.”