Summer
“Fucking best lasagna ever!”
Connor’s outburst after his very first bite, combined with the rich smell, tells me I’ve done a great job with the dish, even if I haven’t tasted it yet.
His plate is still full when he reaches over and scoops a huge portion from the tray. He keeps stuffing food into his mouth like a chipmunk. I’ve never before witnessed anyone eating like this.
The front door unlocks, and Dean strides inside like he’s the only one in the room. Being fashionably late, using his own key, and joining us without a single apology or even a simple “Hello” is Dean’s way of making a statement—one louder than words could ever be—I’m not welcome in his world.
“What’s up your ass?” Connor doesn’t seem to be one to read the room, or care, for that matter. “Here!” He snatches the serving spoon and plops a massive chunk of lasagna onto Dean’s plate. “Eat up. It’s sublime.”
Dean looks at me with a fork in hand, taking a cautious bite, like he’s worried I might have spiked the food.
“It’s good,” he says, his tone cool at best.
For the next hour or so, he remains quiet, while Carter clearly doesn’t know the definition of silence, his amiable tone letting me in on what a gregarious guy he is. This comes as a stark contrast to the way Dean keeps his piercing gaze fixed on me.
The moment I get up to bring the chocolate ganache cake topped with strawberries and the cannoli, the still-unwelcoming voice follows me across the room.
“An uninformed majority will always lose against an informed minority.”
“You wanna play a game of Werewolf or something?” I say over my shoulder, pausing for a moment.
“Or something.” His expression stays untouched by any emotion, but the leaned-in posture gives away curiosity. “We’re the uninformed majority when it comes to you. So how about a game of Never Have I Ever?”
He’s trying to play me? To manipulate me into giving him truths under the guise of a game? Ingenious.
Taking the plate with the cake, I head back to the table.
“Isn’t that a game for schoolgirls?” I retort, turning on my heels to get the rest.
“Not with the questions we’d ask,” Dean continues.
I spot Connor licking his finger after gathering some chocolate from the cake, his juvenile streak shining brightly when it comes to food.
“If you’re playing it like a drinking game, I’ll pass. I can’t really hold my liquor,” I say, getting distracted by how my boyfriend is bringing dessert plates and forks for everyone.
Isn’t he cute helping out?
Focus, for fuck’s sake! A psycho is trying to interrogate you.
“A sip or maybe a raise of your glass then. I’m sure you have questions for us, too.” Dean pushes again.
Nope. No questions. I’ve been following all of you for months.
I want to ask about Mason, but I can’t do that, can I?
I look back at Atlas, and the way he nods makes it clear he has my back either way. But Dean will keep poking. Better to wage this war on what I now consider my territory.
“Okay. I’ll play.”
The corner of Dean’s lips pulls to the side.
Take that stupid smirk off! I’ll give out only as much as I want to.
“Who’s ‘it’ today?” Dean asks.
“I am,” Atlas states.
“It?” I ask, not following what they mean.
Dean puts a piece of cake on his plate while Atlas leans closer to me.
“The sober one. At least one of us always stays sober.”
“Never have I ever lied about who I am,” Dean starts, while Atlas brings a bottle of whiskey and shots to the table. My boyfriend takes an empty one, letting Carter pour alcohol into the rest.
Looking around, no one raises their glass, and I get the urge to do the same, to lie.
But when I glance at Atlas beside me, his eyes begging for the truth, my resolve to deceive falters.
It’s unwise to admit to that in particular, straight up foolish, but the desire not to lie to my boyfriend makes me raise the shot in the air while my eyes never leave his.
Weighing my options that are no more when the drink is already in the air, I know I’ve made the correct choice.
None of them is a fool, and they probably suspect the information Link dug out is the truth with its throat cut open and parts missing, so starting off the game with dishonesty was not preferable.
The weight of the lie off my shoulders, and the game asking no deeper questions, lets my mind clear enough to realize there are others around who are less than truthful.
“Why the fuck haven’t you two taken a shot?” I fling a finger between the twins.
Connor feigns insult with a palm over his heart and a silent theatrical gasp attached to it.
“Technically, we haven’t lied about our identities to anyone.” Carter clears the air, going with a loophole around the question.
“Oh, really?!” My eyes narrow at them when I decide to take the wheel of the game. “Never have I ever let a girl think I’m someone else.” I smile when the amusement falls from Carter’s face. “Is that a more accurate assertion of what you’re doing?”
Both of them raise their glasses, and while Carter’s gaze doesn’t land on me, Connor owns his deeds with a flash of a grin.
“Well played,” Connor says. “Never have I ever choked someone while getting them off,” he shoots right back, and my attention darts to Atlas.
“What? I haven’t said a thing,” Atlas protests, wrapping an arm around my waist like getting closer to me would make me stop eye-stabbing him.
I raise my glass, and Atlas does too, but Dean follows suit, which draws a booming laugh out of Connor.
“Never have I ever stolen a car,” Atlas joins in, sealing the words with a kiss on my cheek.
Not a single shot stays untouched, easing me into raising my own.
“Oh, shit! You too, Principessa?” Connor sounds like an excited child with this question and the cute nickname attached to it, brought by my Italian roots, which he found out about. It turns out he knows Italian along with four other languages. Can’t say I’m not surprised by the fact.
“Her stealing is not even the most exciting part of the story,” Atlas adds.
“Do tell!” Dean’s fingers drum the wood as he leans in like a predator spotting fresh prey.
“That’s not a part of the game,” I shoot back.
“Indulge me, please!” Dean pushes further.
“I did. With lasagna and pastries. You missed the salad.”
His mouth curves slightly, like he is trying not to smile.
“Never have I ever set a place on fire,” Link interrupts the whoever-blinks-first-is-the-donkey staring contest between Dean and me, pouring whiskey again.
Once more, all glasses shoot in the air. Mine stays rooted to the table when Atlas pokes my ribs.
“The theater,” he says, smirking.
“It was a small fire intended to set off the alarms. I didn’t, factually, set the place on fire, so it doesn’t count,” I counter.
“Wait, what?” Link chimes in with curiosity.
“I showed up uninvited to a movie date, and she triggered the alarms to get away from me, keeping her promise that she’d only miss my company if the place caught fire,” Atlas says on a laughing note.
“It counts,” Carter says through his laughter, pushing the shot my way, urging me to take it.
I grunt, raising the glass in surrender.
“Never have I ever had a threesome,” Connor shoots another inappropriate question, cementing this as his trademark.
“It wasn’t your turn,” Carter protests.
“Raise your glass, and you’re swallowing it.” I turn to Atlas with a fair warning, while Connor snorts out a laugh.
“You have an intriguing way of handling men,” Dean notes, ridicule seeping through each syllable.
“Do I? How so?”
“You didn’t learn how to be a good girl and take it.”
“Dean!” Atlas roars, slamming a fist against the wooden surface.
“What? For what it’s worth, that’s actually a compliment.”
“You suck at compliments,” I say, placating Atlas’s anger with my hand over his fist, forcing him to relax his corded muscles.
“Well, I don’t offer any, so it figures.
” Dean takes a bite from his cake, as if the room doesn’t reek of tension.
“Compliments are a waste of breath. Someone is either beautiful, or smart, or whatever, and knows it, so no need to compliment them, or they aren’t, and the praise would be a lie, a vain confidence booster. ”
“What solid logic.”
Why the hell can’t I keep my mouth shut and not engage further?
“Enlighten me then.” He sets the fork down, folds his arms, and leans forward.
“We’re allowed to hold different opinions. I’m not gonna try to persuade you of my point of view.”
“But I wanna hear it anyway.”
I huff a sigh, bracing for impact.
“You don’t have to.” I glance at Atlas, whose hand glides down my leg in a soothing gesture.
“Perceptions are conditional,” I start, turning to face Dean again.
“One can be recognized as beautiful by some, and as not so pretty or even unattractive by others. The same goes for being smart. I may consider myself that, but my brain would be a pitiful excuse for one compared to that of an astrophysicist, for example. You need the affirmation in the form of a compliment to know the person before you perceives you as smart, or beautiful, or even likes your fucked-up personality. Some things are acquired tastes, you know.”
“But you didn’t need him—” Dean points at Atlas with an arched brow and a curled corner of his lips. “—to acknowledge you’re beautiful and smart. You only needed to know if he liked your fucked-up personality.”
My quirkiness is the last thing I want Dean to talk about.
“Can we continue with the game?” I say as I stand, taking the empty cannoli plate and leaving it on the kitchen counter in an attempt to distract from the topic.
“You’re ashamed that you are a freak.”
Am I a freak?
“Dean! Apologize!” Atlas shouts, already standing.
God, I want to punch Dean in the face, but that would ruin a perfectly nice dinner, wouldn’t it?
“I’m not apologizing about shit! All of us here are freaks.”
Dean keeps calm, but the irritation dancing in his eyes shows that at this particular moment, there’s no shortage of emotions running inside him.