Page 121 of The Exit Strategy

I shake it away. Cole meant tell him whenI’mabout to run. Not tell him I’m about to stick a knife in my arch-nemesis.

“Tell me.”

Fuck. He’s like an annoying angel on my shoulder.

But if I do this, I’ll have to explain it to everyone, not just him.

Not that Cole would forbid it. He won’t. Cole has never forbidden me anything in my life, and if I sent this right now, he’d probably watch the fallout with exasperation and concern, then fix the leaky faucet in my bathroom.

So he’s not the problem here.

The problem is that I’d want to defend my actions.

Constantly defending means you’re never moving forward.

If I act, then I’d be defending my pattern of metabolizing pain by lighting it on fire.

I swallow thickly.

I don’t know what I’ll do with all these new…epiphanies.

This is why I suck at adulting, and it’s not something I want to discuss with Cole Whittaker.

It’s not something I want to discuss with anyone. Ever.

It’s something that Bea would have a freaking field day with.

My thumb is still hovering over my screen, and then I delete the draft. For real this time.

I think my guts are actually quaking. It’s like being on a rickety old wooden roller coaster that jolts every splintered beam straight through your bones.

I’ve never in my life deleted a weapon I’d spent so much time honing.

Junie: I won’t react.

Fen: …

Junie: I trust you to do your thing.

Fen: Who are you, and what have you done with my Spite-Berry?

Junie: I deleted my draft, but I have it memorized if you want to read it.

Junie: It was Spite-Berry’s crowning jewel.

Fen: THAT’S MY GIRL!

Fen: …

Junie: Just drop it, Fen.

Fen: You know that’s not my style.

Fen: Seriously, Junie. I’m proud of you.

A lump forms in my throat.

Fen: Cole will lose his shit when he finds out.