Page 13 of Teaching Roman

Chapter Seven

Apparently,Cassie was going to drink away her memories of Trevor. Cassie's dinner consisted of a bit of rice and three margaritas. Now it was up to me to find somewhere to purchase necessities while keeping her upright, which was proving to be no easy feat. Deciding to venture down the block to find a convenience store to stock up on what Cassie called the “essentials,” we traipsed down the street, following the directions of the concierge. Basically we were making a booze run, but Cassie was too classy to call it that. The nearby bodega was packed with tourist essentials, and there was wine and a toothbrush. Score.

“How many nights are we here?” Cassie asked. “Six? So we need what, twenty bottles?”

“I think your math is a little drunk,” I said, taking a bottle out of her hands before she fell on it.

“One more moscato?”

“Fine.” I grabbed a bottle off the shelf and placed it in our basket, which already felt like it was going to rip my arm off.

“Let me pay,” I told her. Trevor's credit card had seen enough damage. I shooed her outside before she tried to whip it out anyway.

A minute later, our necessities were purchased and I ducked out the door as my phone buzzed in my pocket. There were texts from Jillian and Brett. I ignored Brett's, because it stank of desperation and included a short bullet point list of all the reasons why “our break” was totally unfair to him. Scrolling down, I read Jillian's text and smiled.

JILLIAN: You aren't going to believe what Tara told me she got Liam for Christmas. Deets later.

I could imagine what Tara thought was an appropriate gift for her daughter's boyfriend based on years of Jillian's own Christmas presents. One year she'd given her a self-help book on coping with life-altering illness. Nothing says happy holidays like a reminder that you’ve got early onset Parkinson’s. A twinge of guilt rocketed through me. Maybe we should have gone with her to California. There was safety in numbers, but if Liam couldn’t protect her, what could I do? I texted her back to say we'd call her tomorrow and when I looked up, Cassie was nowhere to be seen.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I'd lost track of Cassie. Strike that. I'd lost track of a drunk and angry Cassie. This could spell the end of times.

Darting around the corner, bags clutched desperately against my hips, I searched the next street for her with no luck. I'd only been distracted for a minute. How far could she have gotten?

I walked another block, but she was nowhere to be seen. Most of the shops were closed and the only other people out were American tourists.

“Loca!” The exclamation was followed by a stream of angry Spanish. Cassie couldn’t be too far.

I sprinted in the direction of the cry and discovered Cassie ripping apart a copy of what looked to be a Spanish bridal magazine.

“No,” she said, tearing off the cover and stomping on it. “I don't want to plan the wedding of my dreams!”

“Cassie,” I said. “Come on, honey. You don't want to do this.”

“Yes, I do.” She spit on the now destroyed magazine for good measure.

“I think it learned its lesson.” I tugged her arm, trying to drag her away but she lunged for another one.

“I don’t care about the Royal baby either!” She ripped the cover photo of the smiling mother-to-be in half. This was arguable considering she’d made me watch the royal wedding and all the follow-up reports. Hell hath no fury and all that jazz.

Behind me the operator of the newsstand unleashed another torrent of Spanish I couldn’t begin to keep up with—but I did understand the word policía. I held up my hands and shook my head, struggling to remember any of my high school Spanish. He gestured around the street, and I realized Cassie had gone on a spree. Dozens of magazine pages littered the sidewalk in front of the stand. She might not actually speak Spanish but she’d managed to destroy every magazine that hinted at love or couples or happiness.

“Cassie, give me your purse,” I said, but she ignored me, so I snatched it off her shoulder.

“Hey!” She grabbed for it, but I held her back.

I held up a finger. “Do not test me right now.”

Cassie was going to get her ass thrown in Mexican jail. Hell, she was probably going to get both of our asses thrown in jail. Pulling out the credit card I waved it at the shop owner.

“Para,” I said, pointing to the damage.

His grimace sank further and he slapped a small sign that hung near him.

Únicamente efectivo.

I couldn’t read that, but I could read the translation scrawled below it. Cash only.