No. Be nice. Play nice. What would my therapist say?Anger is your favorite masking response. Try something positive. Rephrase your negativity into something positive.
I hope all of his dreams come true.
Specifically, the dreams where his teeth fall out of his mouth or where he shows up at work humiliatingly naked.
“Cute,” I say.
Dove is smiling, but her face turns red.
Phantom lifts his beer and waves a finger between the two of us. “Are you her new dom?”
Dove clasps her hand over the back of my neck. “No. I’m his.”
Carver’s eyebrows lift. “Dove. I didn’t know you had a switch in you.”
“Neither did I.” Her hand tightens on my neck and she grins at me. “Turns out, I just needed to meet the right, pathetic puppy.”
My heart does a strange skip in my chest when she claims me in front of her friends.
“On that note,” I say. “Can I get anyone a drink?”
Her friends shake their heads, but Dove puts her hand on my arm. “I’ll come with you.”
We slip through the crowd of sweater-clad people to get to the bar. I flag down the bartender and put in our drink orders.
“Cabernet,” I order for myself, “and a Jack and Coke for the lady. Did I get that right?”
She blinks at me. “Shockingly, yes.”
“You talk. A lot. During our sessions. I’ve picked up a thing or two.”
She laughs. “I didn’t think you were listening.”
“I know everything about you—how you take your cocktails. I know your favorite type of hat isbeanie.I know that you wear your socks with clocks on them on days when you need a little pick-me-up because they make you feel like Maurice from Beauty and the Beast.”
“Who doesn’t want to be Maurice?”
“Everyone. Everyone doesn’t want to be Maurice. Most women want to be Belle.”
She shrugs. “The whole town thinks you’re crazy and leaves you alone to tinker with toys all day? Sign me up for that.”
I lean my elbows onto the bar, take out my phone, and crook my finger in Dove’s direction. “Come here a moment.”
She shifts in closer. I adjust my phone so we can see ourselves in the camera’s eye. Even I have to admit—wemake a handsome pair. She rests her chin on my shoulder. “Sayplease.”
“Please.”
I snap the picture. Then I pull my phone back and drop the photo in a text.
“Who are you sending that to?” Dove asks.
“My sister. You met her. If I don’t prove to her I’m being social, she’ll send the battalion.”
Sure enough, Maggie responds to my picture with a flurry of emojis—heart-eyes, heart-eyes, heart-eyes.
Dove cocks her head. “Your sister? When did I meet your sister?”
“At Cure. When you ate all my olives.”
