Pity Fuck

2

Pity Fuck

There had

to be a word for the friend who could be talked into pity-fucking your putative fiancé—not that Danny had ever had a shot in hell of actual

marriage

—after your funeral. Amelie would even

know

that word; she’d whisper it and they would both break down in giggles. As it was, Gin staggered for the end of the alley, ignoring his moaning behind her, because of

course

Bena had said

let’s go do this right

and they ended up at the Inferno Bar buying rounds Gin couldn’t afford. Carolyn had probably seen her leave with Danny, too, and the three Barbies would be trashing her at this very moment like the backstabbing stuck-in-high-school bitches they were.

It was enough to make Gin wish she’d just let him get it in, pump a few times, and cough.

“You bitch.” Danny wasn’t having a good time, for once, because she’d nailed him right where he lived with a good sharp knee-up. “Come back here, you

bitch

.”

Nope, sorry, not gonna

. Her leg hurt. So did her ribs, but Gin knew the word for a man who tried to hold a girl up next to a filthy dumpster on a snowy night and had the gall, the sheer fucking

cheek

, to say he didn’t have a rubber handy.

She’d meant to go through with it this time, honestly. If you couldn’t get fucked under these conditions, when

could

you? But she wasn’t nearly drunk enough in the end, his breath was rancid, and no condom meant no joy. So she moved unsteadily down Gillespie Street fumbling for her phone because it was time to get a rideshare and go back to the apartment she wasn’t going to be able to afford without Amelie.

Gin also knew the word for a best friend who would pity her stupid, silly self right after your funeral because she was going to have to give up a place with good heat and decent water pressure. It was the same as the word for Danny, it started with

ass

and ended with

hole

, and if Amelie was still alive she’d be chanting it under her breath, staggering next to Gin and waving to strangers who would inevitably smile and wave back.

You had to. Amelie was just so…

there

, bright and bubbly all the time.

Gin blinked at her phone, shook it, and pressed the power button before realizing it was out of juice because she hadn’t plugged it in since Carl called about finding Ami. The urge to throw the tiny, expensive metal-and-plastic rectangle across the road itched in her fingers, her toes, her arms. Someone honked, and she dashed across Eleventh with her head down and her shoes clatter-slipping. It was the only pair of black heels she owned, and her calves were on fire.

She knew what she had to do, of course. Continue down Gillespie to Thirteenth, hook over, cut through Falough Park—

hellooooo, Faloooooough

, Amelie would always chant—and go home. Sleep it off and get up in the morning to make plans.

The snow had retreated as evening rose but it was really coming down now, clinging to Gin’s hair. Most of the sidewalks were salted since everyone expected a winter storm, but good luck getting home without a car if she left any later. Danny would stumble back into the Inferno and probably make a bid for Sharpe, which was fine because Gin decided she didn’t want to see any of them ever again.

It couldn’t be that hard. There was a pond right in the middle of Falough, with two storybook-arch bridges and a central white gazebo full of graffiti and used hypodermics. If she didn’t chicken out, if she actually walked right over the bridges, would God realize he’d fucked up, reach down a celestial finger, tip Gin in, and yank Amelie back out?

She was just drunk enough to think maybe it was worth a try as she lengthened her stride, almost running. Thirteenth arrived in a blur, the CopyEx on the corner still open with glowing-yellow windows leering at the street, and there were the big stone lions guarding the park entrance. Someone had once again climbed up and stuffed cigarettes in their wide-open, yawning mouths. Gin’s hair—mousy brown, never worried about dye or a good cut because she was the ugly one—came loose and bounced, shaking snow, and she hit the slight incline on the jogging loop at warp speed, her heart pounding and the last shot of vodka crawling up her throat.