“Last night, my boyfriend and I went at it again. He was so wild. We went through eight condoms. Strawberry flavor.”
She actually looked proud of herself. Beaming. Glowing, like she’d won some kind of trophy.
Meanwhile, I just sat there, trembling. Every word from her mouth hit like a knife, dredging up memories from the life I’d already lived—and died for.
I took a long, shaky breath and forced myself to stay calm. My hands clenched into fists under the table, but I smiled.
“Impressive,” I said flatly.
She mistook the sarcasm for praise and lit up even more. “Of course I’m impressive.”
Then she leaned in, that fake smile slipping into something sharper. “Anyway… you’ve been with Owen for what—two years? And you still haven’t done it?” She clicked her tongue. “Aren’t you afraid someone else is gonna swoop in and steal him while you’re out here playing the Virgin Mary?”
I didn’t answer.
“You know, guys don’t care about whether you’re a virgin. What they do care about is whether you can please them. Keep ‘em happy and they’ll never leave.”
Of course she brought Owen into this.
The “boyfriend” she claimed to have had a wild night with? That was Owen Pollard—my boyfriend.