Page 57 of Better Than Revenge
In my car, I texted the group chat:Jensen showed up at my house pretending to be concerned about my grandma.
Deja responded first:I shouldn’t have sent you that flower today. My bad.
Lee was next:I almost sent you a flower too. Glad I didn’t.
And finally, Maxwell chimed in withI did not almost send you a flower. I was hoping one of you losers would’ve sent me one. But noooo.
I sent you one,Lee responded.
You’re required. I meant my best friends.
I used my last ten bucks to make Jensen jealous,Deja said.
“Gah!” I threw my phone on the passenger seat. They were supposed to rage with me, not get in a fight over flowers. I pressed the ignition button in my car and drove to the only place that might help me right now.
I DIDN’T KNOCK ON THEO’Sdoor. I didn’t want to ruin his day, but I didn’t think he’d mind if I let myself in throughthe side gate to use the equipment. I hoped his parents weren’t having some Spring Day dinner party or something.
The yard was full of its normal things, no decorated tables awaiting guests or party planners scurrying about setting up. The sun was heading toward the ocean, but it was still very much lighting the day as I stomped toward the shed. I pulled out some footballs and a plastic stand and got to work. I was obviously still in my school clothes—jeans and a sweater—having discovered Jensen immediately upon entering my house. The jeans were constricting and the sweater was hot and floppy, but neither of those things stopped me from kicking ball after ball, drawing on every ounce of anger.
Some hit the net, but most flew above it, off to far corners of the yard. I’d kicked through the pile, collected the balls, and started again when a voice behind me said, “I hope you’re not imagining my face on those footballs, because I’d be very insulted.”
“Jensen. It’s his face,” I said, kicking another ball. “His stupid, ugly, entitled face.”
“What happened?” Theo asked.
“I’m just going to murder him, that’s all.” I kicked another ball.
“Finley, come on, you’re going to hurt yourself.”
“How exactly? By kicking the ball too hard? Is that a thing?” I drove my foot into another ball. Despite my snarky response, the top of my foot was actually starting to sting. I wasn’t wearing the right shoes, just an old pair of Converse, but I didn’t care. “Is this how you got hurt?”
“No,” he said evenly. “It isn’t.”
I kicked the next ball, the last one in my second-round pile. I began to collect them again.
Theo followed me, gathering some as well. We both dropped our armload back at the starting point, and then I placed one on the plastic stand.
“Finley,” he said.
I kicked. “You said we could work out today, right? I’m working out.”
“Let me at least loan you the right clothes for this.”
The next ball I kicked went off the side of my foot and careened to the left, landing in a patch of wildflowers. I stomped my foot in a fit of frustration. “You lied to me. You said I was doing well, wasn’t wasting your time, but I’m not and I am. Why am I still doing this? I’m not going to be able to beat him, am I? He’s going to win it all. The place on the podcast, the football spot. He even got a stupid flower today.”
“Didn’t everyone?”
I picked up a ball, then paused. “Who is giving him a flower after what he did to me? They think he’s a catch? He’s already moved on?”
“Would that bother you?” Theo asked.
“No…I don’t know. I told someone you gave me a flower when you didn’t. I don’t think she believed me, but I told myself I was never going to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Use someone to get back at someone else.”
“Are you using me?”