Chapter 9 Cass

When I strode into my apartment, I dropped my tote onto the worn-down hardwood floor with a thud that briefly made me wonder if I had accidentally broken my laptop. The concern passed quickly; I didn't have the patience to give a shit about my laptop. I had one thing—and only one thing—on my mind. I wanted to regret whatever I did tonight. I wanted to make so many bad decisions that I would have to briefly consider flying to Vatican City to beg the Pope himself for forgiveness. I wanted to stab my dignity so hard I would be featured on an extra-long, extra special episode of Dateline .

Somehow, Bethany could sense this the moment she laid eyes on me. I kicked off my heels, not looking to see where they landed. All the while, she was watching me with a mix of confusion and what honestly looked like terror in her eyes.

"Get up," I ordered her, "and get dressed. We're going out."

Bethany dropped her fork into the disposable bowl on her lap and cleared her throat as she finished chewing. She gestured at herself. "Cass. Beautiful, insane, Cass. Love of my life. Tell me what you see right now," she responded, speaking slowly.

At this point, I was straddling between the living room and my bedroom, rifling through a stack of clean shirts on top of my dresser. "What?"

"Literally describe what I'm doing."

"Oh," I said, frowning. I poked my head into the living room and surveyed her up and down. "Okay, you're sitting on the couch and eating Sweetgreen while doing a pore strip on your nose and watching…" I squinted at the television. "Is that Downton Abbey ?"

"It's The Crown ," she corrected. "And you missed a few details—like the fact that I'm not wearing a bra, I'm on my second glass of wine, and I've already got cookie dough defrosting on the counter. So, let's put all those pieces together and revisit your directive. Do you think there's even a glimmer of a chance of me going out tonight?"

Undeterred, I tilted my head. "I can be very persuasive."

Her expression was dubious. She brought her wine glass up to her lips. "There's no way in hell you're going to be more persuasive than the third season of The Crown ."

"Bethany, come on," I groaned as I wandered over to the couch and collapsed onto it next to her. As usual, it sagged under our combined weight. We definitely needed a new one—add that to the list of hundreds of new things we needed.

"Quit it."

"I had a shitty day and I need to blow off some steam." I forced out my lower lip, giving her the most exaggerated sad face I could muster.

"Steam?" She cocked an eyebrow and then let out a shrill laugh. "Bitch, please. We know the only thing you want to blow is a guy who has no interest in sharing his last name or learning yours."

I probably should have been offended, but instead I found myself suppressing a grin. She wasn't wrong. At all.

"Go without me," she insisted, waving her hand as she turned her attention back to her salad. "I'll even give you five bucks to buy yourself a shot and pretend like I went out and bought it for you."

"Are you sure?" I reached out and tugged on a lock of her hair. "You don't want to watch me descend into a reckless spiral so grand I may have to move to Montenegro to avoid extradition?"

"Ah, you know how I love talking about international law, but no," she responded with a shake of her head. "I love you though."

"Liar."

Bethany rolled her eyes before she actually poked me in the shoulder with the tines of her fork. "Seriously, just go. You'll probably have more fun without me. And I'll be in bed by eleven, so feel free to bring whoever you find back with you. Just no screwing on the couch. I really hate when you do that."

With a sigh, I stood again. "What about the little pouf in the corner? Is that fair game?"

Her eyes widened. "My grandmother knitted that, you evil slut!" she cried out as she tossed a balled-up napkin at me.

"I'm kidding!" I declared while dodging the napkin and retreating to my room. "The pouf's not big enough anyway."