“What’s this?” she asks.
“You look like you had a rough night.” I hand hers over, but she doesn’t accept it right away.
Her tired stare rests on my outstretched hand. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
“Weirding you out too, huh?”
I manage to get the smallest smile out of her. I think. It’s gone before I can be sure.
Finally taking my generous gift, Melrose raises her brows and takes a swig. “Guess not.”
“You want to talk about it?” I ask, hooking my hand behind my neck. I’m terrible at these kinds of things and I don’t like to talk for the sake of talking, but I’ve come this far.
“Is your girlfriend gone?” She ignores my question.
“Acquaintance. And yeah. I sent her home.”
“You did?” Her forehead crinkles, like she doesn’t believe it.
I nod. And I don’t believe it myself. I’ve never put sex on the back burner so I could comfort some crying chick.
“I need to let Murphy out.” Melrose scoops the wrinkly beast into her arms and treks downstairs, cutting through the living room and kitchen to get to the backyard.
I follow, stepping out to the patio and sliding the door closed behind me. Murphy trots off, disappearing somewhere in the dark yard, and Melrose takes a seat on one of the steps. The moonlight makes her shine almost, painting a glow onto her bronzed skin and silky hair.
“So … you’re okay then?” I ask, picking at the label on my bottle. It occurs to me that I still haven’t thanked her for folding my shirts the other day, but this doesn’t feel like the right time.
“You don’t have to do this,” she says.
“Do what?”
“Feel sorry for me,” she says, turning and glancing up. “I don’t need your pity.”
“I don’t feel sorry for you. I don’t even know what happened,” I say. “But judging by the way you were dressed when you came home … I’m thinking it had to do with some douche.”
“You were right, Sutter.” She picks at the label on her bottle. “I went out with Robert McCauley tonight.”
My chest tightens. I already know where this is going.
“He took what could’ve been a memorable evening and turned it into a Hollywood cliché ripped straight from last year’s headlines.” She draws her knees against her chest and clasps her hands around them. “All my years trying to make it and all the dates I’ve been on, I’ve never felt so cheap and used.”
I take the spot on the stairs beside her, catching a whiff of her fragrant perfume as it’s carried by a breeze. This one’s different from the one she wore on moving day. It’s subtle and pretty, unassuming. Like clementines and apricots or some shit.
Melrose takes a drink, tapping her painted nails on the green bottle and squinting like she’s lost in thought.
“What guy thinks that making you touch his hard-on is a good precursor to sex?” she asks. “Is that supposed to turn me on? Grabbing my hand and forcefully making me touch it?”
“Did he hurt you?” I glance down at her wrists, but it’s too dark out here to tell if there are any marks.
“Not physically, no,” she says. “I was a little shaken up afterwards.” Melrose lifts a hand, which is still trembling. “Guess I still am.”
“You need to report this.” My chest tightens and I realize I’m holding my breath. I could kill him. I could fucking kill him.
For the briefest moment, I picture body slamming the fat bastard against the back of his Ferrari.
Melrose shakes her hand. “I kind of just want to forget it happened.”
Placing my bottle aside, I shake my head. “I’m sure you’re not the only one. Guy’s probably done it to dozens of other girls. And he probably keeps doing it because it probably works for him. I’m glad you were wrong and all and stood up to him, but you can’t let him get away with this.”
“What are they going to do? It’s my word against his,” she says. “They’ll probably think I’m making it up.”
“Who gives a flying fuck what they think? This needs to be reported.”
Melrose turns toward the yard, watching Murphy sniff a magnolia bush.
Rising, I motion for her to join me. “Come on. Let’s go. I’ll drive you.”
Melrose angles her face toward me, resting her cheek against the top of her knee. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
“Does it matter?”
“No. I guess not,” she says, standing. “It’s just … I don’t know if you’re trolling me or if this is real.”
“I’m not trolling you, Melrose. I don’t joke about this shit.” I have to admit, it’s kind of nice being civil with her for once. “I might be a dick sometimes, but I’m not heartless.”
Her full lips part, like she’s about to respond, but the buzz of her phone hijacks her train of thought.