Page 98 of Bitter’s Sweet

That should help.

It doesn’t.

Silence from a man like Razor is another way to make a woman listen. Still, the hours do something useful. They prove the world can keep moving.

Bitter walks past the school twice without coming in. The third time, he leaves a paper cup of coffee beside the door with SWEET written across the lid in black marker.

Underneath it:

NO, THIS IS NOT A DATE.

I laugh so loudly Mercy comes over to inspect the problem.

She reads the cup, then looks through the window at Bitter’s retreating back. “That boy is dumb as homemade sin.”

“I think it’s sweet.”

“Don’t encourage him.”

I keep the cup anyway.

By late afternoon, my cheeks hurt from smiling at strangers and my feet ache inside the pink shoes. Mercy takes one look at me.

“Go.”

“I can finish labeling the palettes.”

“Sweet.”

“I’m fine.”

“Sugar, I’ve seen corpses lie more convincingly.”

Lark pops her head around a shelf. “And we do their makeup after.”

“Not helping.”

“I rarely do.”

Mercy points toward the door. “Bitter’s taking you back up.”

“I can walk across a parking lot.”

“You can also attract trouble like glitter on a corpse, and yet here we are.”

I want to argue. Then I look outside and realize every black helmet still makes my stomach clench.

So I go.

Bitter waits outside the school doors like Mercy summoned him from smoke. He looks tired now, dust on his boots, cut on, sunglasses tucked into the front of his shirt.

“You ready?”

“Mercy dismissed me before I developed facial paralysis from pretending to be cheerful.”

His mouth twitches. “You hungry?”

“Always, apparently.”