Page 87 of A Taste of Vanilla

It sold out.

Exactly my point.

I lock my phone and look at the note again. Then at the coffee he brought me. And then at the back door, where I entered this morning with a clear mind and a guilty conscience.

God, my mattress probably looks like a crime scene staged by lust and poor judgment.

I have about twenty minutes before Marley arrives with caffeine and her brother.

Twenty minutes is long enough to do many things. I could change my sheets, brush my hair, hide the note, even make muffins.

I could call my therapist.

Instead, I stand completely still and whisper, “His dick was pierced.”

I start laughing, but it’s not normal laughter. It’s panic laughter.A bright, breathless thing that has my hand over my mouth and makes a sound that bounces off the tile. I bend at the waist.

It’s the kind of laugh you let out when you’re searching for two girls kissing on your family laptop, but your dad walks in and the second you click on one of the other seventeen tabs you have open, the porno music starts playing and your heart drops into your ass as you stare at your dad silently with wide Bambi eyes as you watch him decide whether he wants to acknowledge it or not but instead, he just walks out of the room and?—

Breathe.

I count to five. Name five things around me.

What am I supposed to do with that information? Carry it alone? A dick-piercing-sized secret in my pocket for the rest of my life? Pass it on like an heirloom? A cursed family jewel?

No.

Absolutely not.

Some things are just too large for one woman to carry.

Then I remember Marley is bringing her brother.

I glance at the front door.

“Okay,” I tell myself. “We will not be discussing genital jewelry in front of a man who probably alphabetizes his spice cabinet.”

I wash my hands and pull muffin batter from the cooler, set out mixing bowls, grab more gold sprinkles from the back, and attempt to become the version of Halston Smith who owns a business and doesn’t spiral over one-night stands before seven in the morning.

That version of me lasts for exactly four minutes.

Then I see the coffee again.

Black. Strong. Too bitter for me.

I sigh and pour in my vanilla syrup, oat milk, and what some may consider a disrespectful amount of cinnamon before leaning against the counter and taking a sip.

Much better.

The bell over the front door jingles at six twenty-three, and I jump so hard that coffee sloshes into my hand.

Marley trudges in alone wearing black leggings, an oversized sweatshirt, sunglasses pushed onto the top of her head, and the expression of a woman who smells blood in the water.

She locks the door behind her.

She doesn’t say good morning or ask if I’m okay.

She takes one single look at my face and freezes.