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Not Sweet.

Sunshine.

A joke. Distance. A warning disguised as honesty after the damage is already done.

I nod slowly. “Yes.”

His jaw flexes.

“You did.”

Trixie whispers, “Jesus Christ, Bitter.”

He flinches harder at her judgment than mine.

That almost makes me laugh.

Almost.

I walk to the workbench and put the plate down carefully because my hands have started shaking. I flatten them against the wood until they stop.

“I thought you probably hadn’t eaten.”

Bitter looks at the plate.

Then at me.

I hope it hurts.

That is petty.

I do not care.

“You chose your club over me this morning,” I say. “I came here because some stupid part of me thought maybe you were scared and mean and wrong, but not finished.”

“Sweet.”

“I thought maybe we could talk about it.”

I glance toward the coffin. Trixie is fully dressed now and standing beside it with her arms folded.

“I guess you found another way to answer.”

Bitter takes one step toward me.

My entire body reacts. My heart. My skin. Memory.

Last night.

I hate it.

I lift one hand.

“Don’t.”

He stops.

At least he still remembers that word.