Page 551 of Lessons in Cruelty

We belong in the wild.

Cool, salty air sliding over our skin. The patter of sand grains against our clothes when there’s a gust of wind. The puff of warm air as that same breeze stirs the heat of the fire, making the embers pop and spark.

Out here we can both pretend nothing else matters, just like we did when we were kids.

I don’t expect her to follow me as I walk back to the house.

And she doesn’t.

There’s such a suspicious frown on her face when I come back a few minutes later, like she’s wondering why I bothered returning.

I gesture for her to stand, and she steps aside, shaking off her clothes as I smooth down the bumpy sand where we’d been sitting, and lay down a blanket. The staff that came to air out the place packed us a picnic basket. We’d demolished most of the snacks while I gave Haven a tour of the beach house, but there’s still a bag of marshmallows and some skewers inside.

Haven pulls off her Uggs before stepping onto the blanket, plucking at her beige leggings before sitting cross-legged.

Beige isn’t exactly a flattering color, but I swear she can wear a fucking trash bag and she’d look hot. Actually, I’ve seen her in a trash bag at the Rain Dance, and I can confirm she was a stone-cold fox.

I’m grinning as I come to sit beside her.

“What’s so funny?”

“Your face when I asked you what size clothes you wore.”

“Super sus,” she says through a smile. “But at least I got some free shit out of it.” She points at me, eyes narrowed. “Clothes you owed me anyway, since you trashed my entire wardrobe.”

“That wasn’t my fau…” I trail off when she widens her eyes in warning. “Smores?”

I can’t stand marshmallows, but I know she loves them. Never knew candy could be so interactive until I watched her destroying a marshmallow for the first time. Watching her work her way through a bag of them was an education in torture.

For once, I’m glad the staff forgot about my preferences, because it means Haven has an entire bag of marshmallows to keep her happy.

She drags the picnic basket closer, but instead of grabbing the candy, takes out the thermal flask I’d put inside and shakes it so hard I’m expecting it to explode.

“What’s this?”

“Hot chocolate.”

“Forget the fucking marshmallows,” she mutters, immediately rooting around in the basket for cups.

Which I forgot to pack.

“Where are the⁠—”

“We’ll have to share.” I take the flask from her, unscrewing the lid and using it as a cup to pour out a measure of the steaming hot cocoa. “Here.”

She sniffs it warily, takes a tiny sip, and nods. “At least it’s better than your cooking.”

“Excuse me,” I mutter, grabbing the lid from her. “It’s much fucking better than my cooking.”

“I mean, are you trying to claim insurance on the house or something? It’s like you were actively trying to start a fire back there.”

“Maintenance on this place is eye-watering. Would have been a blessing.”

“Disguised as arson?” she asks politely as I refill the lid for her.

“Keep going, and there’ll be news of a dead body in the papers this week.”

The side of her mouth perks up, but it’s not a true smile. And I know Haven has a dark sense of humor, so it’s not that she thinks my joke is crass.