Page 89 of Cocky Brutal Sinner

I read about a study once where they brought people into an empty room, except for a button. If you pressed the button, you got a painful electric shock. When they were left alone for fifteen minutes, a crazy amount of people chose to press the button. Maybe humans are just wired to crave pain.

Maybe that’s why I find myself scrolling up through the guy chat, rereading months of inside jokes, trash talk, restaurant recommendations. Ryan rescheduling poker night around his five-month anniversary with Pippa, and all of us giving him shit for celebrating a five-month anniversary. Nate sending us a picture of Cat proudly displaying messy-looking homemade pink iced cupcakes. It’s like a living record of the family I built, frozen in time.

I clench my jaw so hard it hurts and close the app.

Mama chooses that exact moment to call.

Because I’m lonely, I pick up, even though I fully expect a lecture about taking Giulia out to dinner or something.

“Hey, Mama.”

“Hello, tesoro.” Her voice sounds strangely cool. “I just heard a strange rumor.”

My stomach drops. “What kind of rumor?”

“You’ve had a falling out with your friends. Something about an anonymous blogger and a lost business deal. Is it the restaurant?”

“No. The restaurant is fine.”

“But you’re fighting with Luke.”

I frown. How did she find out it was Luke who’s mad at me?

“Don’t worry about it. It’s not that big a deal.”

“Is it? Because friendships that old don’t crack for nothing. Something must have happened. Tell me, Beau.”

I rub my temples, staving off a headache. “Nothing, Mama. Really. Whatever rumors you heard, I’m sure they were exaggerated.”

“You don’t have to pretend with me. Those boys are the most important thing in your life. I know you’re hurting, Beau. What I don’t understand is who could be worth jeopardizing those relationships for.”

“Haven’t you meddled in my life enough already, Mama?” I snap. “I said it was nothing, now leave me alone!”

She’s quiet. Mama is never quiet—she would rather fight it out than leave conflict simmering. I know immediately that I’ve gone too far. What I said was true, but I threw it at her because I wanted to hurt her. Because she got too close to the truth, and I needed her to get away.

“You remind me of your father when you shut people out,” she says.

I wince. It stings because it’s true.

“I’m sorry, Mama.”

“I know you are. We’ll talk later, when you’re in a better mood.”

She hangs up before me, for the first time I can remember.

Shit. Now there are officially only two people in Toronto who aren’t actively pissed at me—Brinley and Victor. Even Tomasso is going to be grumpy, because it’s only been fifteen minutes since I left the kitchen, but if I don’t get back up and distract myself, I’m going to spiral so low, paleontologists might be digging me out in a few thousand years.

I speed through the kitchen before Tomasso can see me and complain. Being front of house isn’t my favorite job, but it’s better than being alone with my thoughts.

I send the bartender outside for a smoke and take over, pouring wine and making cocktails for the customers waiting at the bar. Using the cocktail shaker is as close as I’m going to get to a workout today. I’m making a batch of amaretto sours when a man with dark blonde hair enters. My eyes catch on him, hope flaring briefly in my chest before I make out his face.

It’s not Luke.

Luke, who comes to Terrace three or four times a week, for dinner or a drink or just to say hi. Maybe part of me came to Terrace tonight hoping he’d come. Hoping that he’d forgive me, explain he was too busy at work to text and that he’s fine that I’m in love with his sister, actually.

Or maybe I just crave the pain of him not coming.

Because every time the elevator doors open and it’s not him, my soul deflates a little more.