The Dimple Strikes Back by Lucy Woodhull Page B

thought you’d dumped me?”
    “Because I love you! I was content with lorvst and casual sex, but then you crept in my brain and made me want things I can’t have!” My face overheated, like a car sitting in the Florida sun. “You gave me a cat, you bastard.”
    “Samantha, I’m sorry—”
    “No! Don’t you dare mush out on me. I wanna fight. I want to be mad! I want to be angry at you and your asshole thief buddies. I want to be furious at—at—everything! So call me a name or shut the fuck up!”
    His face crumpled piteously. “I don’t—”
    “Gaaaaaaahh!” I threw my bag to the floor and slammed my hands on my hips. “I put on cute underwear for this rescue. I had plans for us! Do you see?” I stretched out the neck of my black T-shirt to show him a lacy red bra. “I was hopeful. I leapt into the fray for you, in pretty lingerie, and I demand that you drool over this underwear.” Suddenly, I desperately needed a screw. A breakup screw.
    “Baby—”
    “Now. And don’t you ‘baby’ me. I have been dumped by the criminal .” I said ‘I’, ‘dumped’ and ‘criminal’ with such outrage I actually spat them. Was it backwards day? I wiped the spittle off my chin.
    “ The criminal ? Nice. I’ve always been on the lower rung of this relationship, haven’t I?”
    “Oh, what a marvellous martyr you are.” I scanned the room for anything I’d forgotten. “I don’t want any tender bullshit from you anyway. What’s the fucking point?” I would not cry.
    I would not cry.
    I shrugged and said, in a delightfully mild tone, “Fine. I’ll just go back to London and bang the first movie star I see.”
    That made him mad. The parts of his face that weren’t beaten up turned red. “This is mean. You’re being so mean.” His voice broke, and he suddenly sounded like a little kid.
    I steeled my heart. “Then it’s good you’re getting rid of me.”
    I finished shoving my stuff into my bag and began stomping around to find my purse. His voice was pathetic and small when he said, “I didn’t want to part badly.”
    My turn to guffaw. “How else was this going to end? Jesus, and I thought I was the one living in fantasy land.” I plopped ten Euros on the nightstand for the maid service. “You know what I won’t miss? That stupid dimple. You only have one—what is that? You’re lopsided!”
    He growled, actually growled, and returned, “I won’t miss your temper. I won’t miss your compunction for hitting me.”
    Good. Now we were really fighting. I wanted a cage. I wanted a net and a trident, Star Trek -style, with dramatic violins shrieking my heartbreak, because it couldn’t just be over because we said so in a no-name hotel on a beautiful day. At least we were in Europe. Breakups in LA happened over vegan fro-yo, which is wrong on so many levels.
    I took a step towards him. “I won’t miss your being pissy in the morning. Like this morning. I bet Daniel Zhang is pleasant first thing in the morning—he’s such a gentleman. Maybe I’ll find out.”
    He didn’t take the bait, but stayed where he was. God, what did a girl have to do to get some breakup nookie? My desperation for one last bite of him nearly yanked a scream of frustration from my bowels. I clenched my teeth to rein it in.
    He snapped, “I won’t miss your friend bad-mouthing me at every turn.”
    “Aw, did mean old Ellen hurt you in your fee-fees?”
    He kicked the pillow I’d launched at him and crossed towards me, steam practically coming out his ears. “Do you think this is easy for me?”
    “I don’t care! Why did you even bother with me? This could have been a fling that hurt no one!”
    “No, it couldn’t!” He swept into the last few inches between us. “You stomped on my heart the minute I met you.”
    “The minute you manipulated me to steal that Godforsaken Picasso, you mean.”
    “Stop putting words in my mouth!”
    “You’re a fake and a phony, and I wish I’d never laid eyes on