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“You want this.”
Ken watched me pout the way an exhausted parent watches their toddler have a tantrum. His whole being seemed to say, Can we not do this right now? and, Are you done yet?
But I wasn’t done. I was Brooke fucking Bradley, a spoiled only-child whose parents had inadvertently taught her that no simply meant I hadn’t been a big enough pain in the ass yet. Ken might not want anything, but I sure as shit did.
“Listen,” I snarled as soon as our server left with Ken’s credit card, “either you can open this, or I can do it for you, but we are not leaving here until you’ve seen your fucking present.”
Ken sighed, his shoulders sagging in defeat, but he made no move to reach for the gift.
“Fine,” I hissed. Pulling the envelope away from the package unnecessarily hard, I tore open the flap and yanked out the homemade card. “Ooh, would you look at that?” I cried in my sweetest Southern belle voice, blinking my biggest Disney princess eyes. “Isn’t that just the prettiest thing you ever did see?” I gasped and placed a hand over my heart. “Oh my goodness, I think it even says your name.” I slapped the card on the table where Ken’s plate had been. “And there’s more!” I tore the silver gift wrap off the CD and turned it around to face him. “The All-American Rejects. Oh, I just love them! What a nice gift you got, Ken.” Tossing the CD next to the card on the table, I fell out of character and slumped back in my booth. Napalm pumped through my veins as I glared at him, imagining a thousand and one ways that I could hurt him, using only the cutlery on the table.
“Can we go now?” Ken asked, unaffected by my performance.
Pulling on my harshest resting bitch face, I grabbed my purse and Ken’s gifts off the table. “Great idea.”
In addition to being a holiday engineered by American greeting card companies, Valentine’s Day was also Jason’s birthday. He was throwing himself a birthday party that night, and we’d promised to go.
“You still going to Jason’s?” Ken asked from somewhere behind me as I stomped across the dark parking lot toward my black Mustang.
I caught a hint of remorse in his voice. Or maybe it was trepidation because I was acting like such a stabby psycho.
“Yep,” I replied flatly just as Ken hit the unlock button on his key fob.
The headlights on his Eclipse blinked a few spaces away, and before I had a chance to even think about it, I’d already broken into a full-on sprint. I raced to his car, yanked open the passenger door, and tossed both the CD and card inside. Slamming Ken’s door, I turned and power-walked back to my Mustang, making direct eye contact with him the whole way.
They’re yours now, motherfucker. Suck it.
Ken watched me with a look of absolute boredom on his beautiful face.
I peeled out of there and was back on the highway before Ken had even cranked his engine. Even though I was doing fifteen over the speed limit, the drive into Atlanta felt like it took an eternity. I spent my time alone replaying every aspect of my Valentine’s date from hell and then moved on to psychoanalyzing our entire relationship. I came to two conclusions during that trip across town.
One, Ken was a stubborn, rigid, self-restrictive asshole.
And two, I’d been right all along; he just wasn’t that into me.
I threw my car into a parking spot beside Jason’s apartment building and marched up the four flights of cement stairs without waiting for Ken to arrive. The way he drove, I’d probably beaten him by a solid ten minutes anyway.
Jason opened the door after the fifteenth knock, reeking of brown liquor and smiling from ear to ear.
“Whasss up, buttercup?” he slurred.
I raised my arms to hug him around the neck. “Happy birth—ahh!” I squealed as Jason picked me up and spun me around.
Kicking the door shut and almost dropping me in the process, Jason turned and carried me into the living room where more people than usual were gathered in clusters, drinking and yelling over the aggressively loud electronic dance music blaring from Jason’s high-tech home stereo.
“Look what I found, muhrfuckersss,” Jason announced to no one in particular.
Setting me down on my feet, he steered his stumble toward the couch, snatching a half-empty glass of scotch off the coffee table along the way. Jason landed on the sofa, sending amber liquid flying.
I dived into the spot next to him and clasped my hands around his highball glass, steadying it before he dumped the rest of the caramel-colored contents on himself.
“Easy there, birthday boy. You might wanna pace yourself. You haven’t even blown your candles out yet.” I gave Jason a small smile that he didn’t return.
“Whasss the fuckin’ point?” he slurred, his glassy, droopy eyes searching for my face but landing somewhere near my shoulder. “Nobody cares.”
“Hey, what are you talking about?” I asked, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Look at all these people who came to your party. Everybody cares. What’s going on?”
I’d never heard Jason say anything negative before. I’d never really heard him talk about his feelings at all. Usually, I saw him happy drunk, then sloppy drunk, then passed-out drunk, but never sad drunk.
