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“Yes,” I said succinctly.
“But he’s not what I was expecting,” she added.
My lip curled. “He can be charming—”
“It’s not that. I figured he’d be charming.”
“What then?”
“I don’t know. I knew you hated him, and I guess I just figured he hated you back. But he definitely doesn’t hate you.”
I waved my hand in the air as though warding off the notion. “It’s complicated. He’s as hostile as I am, he just hides it better, but don’t let him fool you—he's a fucking beast when it comes to breaking hearts.
She nodded, her eyes so solemn that I had to look away. “That I gathered. I’m sorry I said Anton was your boyfriend. I thought I was helping, but I made things worse, didn’t I?”
“On the contrary,” I assured her. “Your interruption couldn’t have come at a better time, so thank you.”
She smiled cheekily, shrugging, “Anytime.”
“What was he doing here?” Anton asked from the sofa.
I looked down at my hands, bracing myself for the pain of saying it aloud. “Gram died.”
They both gasped.
“Oh no,” Demi uttered softly.
“Not Gram,” Anton muttered, followed by a steady and vehement string of cursing.
Just like anyone important in my life invariably knew at least something about Dante, they also knew about Gram. She was the only person I considered family and talked about as such.
“What happened?”
“A fatal stroke. That’s why he was chasing me around. I guess he didn’t want to tell me over the phone.”
“But he didn’t tell you last night?” Demi asked.
Anton coughed and I glared at him.
“He didn’t.” I knew they’d heard what he’d said back in my room, or at least enough to suspect, but I had no intention of hashing it out.
“What can I do?” Demi asked, sounding so sincere and concerned that I could hardly stand to hear it.
I nodded at the open bottle of scotch I’d left in the kitchen earlier. “Hand me that, will you?”
There was only one thing to be done. Because crying in my room alone held no appeal, and crying in front of other people was even worse—I was throwing one hell of a drunk.
I was hoping this one was more successful than the last attempt.
Or, at the very least, less disastrous.
Demi and Anton didn’t hesitate to join me.
I stopped drinking out of the bottle (because we had company now) and made myself an oversized tumbler of scotch.
Anton and Demi did the same. Demi despised scotch, so I knew she was just being a good sport.
“I hope you can stomach this stuff,” I told Anton as he took a long swallow. “It was way too low class for Dante the Bastard.”
