Page 53 of Sinister Secrets

“You will… just not yet. We can do makeovers.”

“Not happening.”

“Paint each other’s nails?”

“I don’t even own any polish.”

“Play truth or dare? Come on. What mixers do you have?”

Refilling my glass, I hold her eye as I drink it straight up. “No clue.”

Her brows arch, but she accepts the challenge. Pours herself a shot and tosses it back. Fans herself like it might help with the burn. “That’ll put some hair on your chest. Or melt it off from the inside out.”

I can’t help but laugh.

“See, we’re having fun already.” Suddenly, her expression goes serious. A lump stretches her throat as she swallows hard. Her voice is uncharacteristically soft as she says, “This might be the only chance we ever get to do this and… I could really use a night off from my thoughts right now. I think maybe you could, too.”

After a long pause, I nod. “All right then, bring on the fun.”

“Bring on the fun!” she cheers. “Thank you, Cassie. You won’t regret it.”

An hour later, we’re sprawled on the couch, my sides aching from laughing so much. All the takeout food is gone and we’re working on an ancient carton of freezer burnt ice cream I found under a brick of banana bread I swear I put in there as a teenager. An old episode of Jerry Springer plays on the TV, the mystery of why Butch never let me watch the show now solved.

“Here it comes.” Chelsea’s leg nudges mine as she leans forward, filling our glasses. Passing mine to me, she counts down. “Wait for it. Wait for it. Oh!”

We both chug our drinks as a woman on stage takes off one of her shoes and tries to attack another guest with it.

“There’s no way this is real,” I say.

“It totally is,” she insists, her nose wrinkling as she laughs, triggering a distant memory. I’ve known someone else who did that, though I can’t recall who.

“Grown adults wouldn’t act like that.”

“You mean you never feel like throwing a tantrum like a toddler who ransacked a candy shop and missed their nap?”

I think of earlier, when Chelsea came in and found me drowning my sorrows alone in the dark. Wasn’t that what I was doing, in my own way? Throwing a tantrum? It might not have been as loud and disruptive as the people onscreen, but just because I’ve always been more self-destructive than an exhibitionist, it doesn’t mean the inner turmoil isn’t the same.

“Hey.” Chelsea sits up, facing me. Fumbles for the remote and turns the TV off, her gaze never leaving my face. “Cassie, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

She gives me a look that lets me know she clearly doesn’t believe me.

“I’m just… feeling a bit sorry for myself, is all.”

“Is it Jake?”

“What would make you say that?”

She shrugs, looking away. “In my experience, when a woman looks like you do right now, a man’s to blame.”

“It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

“I’m just feeling a bit stressed about work. It isn’t the best time for him to get called away.”

“Anything you want to talk about?”