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Grace nods. “Yeah, but I don’t think they’ve ever been that serious. I mean, I’ve seen her date other people.”
That defuses some of my tension.
“By the looks of things, it’s about to get pretty damn serious,” Bella retorts. “I mean, dinner with the parents? No one does that unless there’s a ring coming in the near future.”
So much for that. I’m right back to seething and wishing my eyes could shoot lasers into his treacherous back.
Just then, as though the sheer force of my gaze got his attention, Callum looks over his shoulder and sees me, glaring at him.
Then the asshole has the gall to smile, and wave.
Fucking wave.
I’m going to murder him.
But in the interest of having an alibi—not to mention, some self-respect—I fake my brightest smile and wave back.
Then I redirect my attention to the table of girls around me. We’re meeting for dinner, then the rest of Lucinda’s birthday is happening in a club.
I do my best to stay focused on the conversations around me, but my mind refuses to let go of the jerk and his damn girlfriend. Dinner is delicious, though a lot more casual than Luminaris: I recognize all the ingredients, at least. And the wine is perfect, and better yet, plentiful. The servers never stop pouring, and I don’t try to stop them.
We’re halfway through our mains when the happy couple leave, Callum’s arm thrown around Camilla’s shoulders in the most natural of embraces.
I snap.
I blame the wine, but I can’t help it: I grab my phone and search for his name.
Me: Does your girlfriend know you like to buy girls to fuck in your free time?
I put my phone back in my pocket. It’s not like he’s going to reply, given the company he’s in, but I feel better, now I’ve called him out on his shit.
My hand’s still clasping the device when it buzzes into life, signaling a reply.
Really?
I half expect someone else has messaged me—although the only other person communicating with me at the moment is seated next to me, and definitely not texting.
But it’s from Callum.
Callum: So that’s what it takes to get your attention, huh?
I blink at the screen incomprehensibly. Get my—what the hell is he on about?
Me: Don’t text me again.
I don’t even have time to put the phone back into my pocket before the three dots are flying.
Callum: You started, love.
I’m incredibly annoyed about the fact that he’s right.
Me: And now I’m ending this. Bye.
Callum: Strange that my messages are still getting through. Never heard of the block button?
Again, he’s correct. I could have just blocked him. And I certainly should now. But I find it much more satisfying to just reply with a middle finger emoji, so I do that, before putting the device back in my pocket.
I can’t pinpoint why exactly, but I feel considerably better. I guess I don’t do well with unresolved issues. I said my piece now. He knows I think he’s full of shit. And needless to say, I’m never letting him touch me again.
