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Jackarse?”
    “Am I missing something, darlin’? Did you fake the three orgasms you just had, ’cause you and I may fake our way through a lot of shit, but I’m pretty sure even you aren’t that good at pretending?”
    “And you would know all about pretending, wouldn’t you, Jackson?”
    “Holly, are you high right now? You got off. I got off. You accomplished what you came in here to do, so what the fuck is your problem?”
    “I did not come in here for that.”
    “Sweetheart, you can pretend all you want with everybody else, but they don’t see the real you, not like I do. You and I are the same, Hols. We use sex as a weapon. Hell, we use it just to punish one another. There’s no lying to me, darlin’, ’cause I see straight through you, every single time.” He presses his arm against the door, just beside my head, and leans in close enough so that his breath skates the shell of my ear when he whispers, “You came in here because you needed to be fucked, and I’ll fuck you again, because the more we try and stay away, the more we want each other.”
    “Fine. You know what? Maybe you’re right, maybe I did come here looking for a way to deal with everything that’s going on, but don’t flatter yourself into thinking this was more than a one-time thing.”
    He narrows his eyes, and takes a step back, folding his arms across his chest. I can see how much that last comment stung, and I feel both a sense of smug satisfaction and guilt. “We’ll see.”
    “You know what? Screw you.”
    “Already did. As always, Hols, your cunt was as perfect and tight as ever, but I’m getting tired, so …” He inclines his head toward the door.
    Oh no he di-int.
    I’m so mad I’m seeing stars right now, and it’s hard not to let my fist get acquainted with his face. For a beat I just stand there, close my eyes, and breathe, and then I push off the door, and slink through it with my tail between my legs.

I CLOSE the door on yet another well-meaning, casserole-wielding resident of Sugartown, and deposit it on the kitchen bench, along with the twenty other “I’m sorry your trampy wife got barbequed” dishes that won’t fit in the fridge. I pull a spoon from the drawer, pick up a particularly delicious-looking baked cheesecake, and start tucking in. I could murder a Midori right now, which is weird, because I’m pretty sure I would never want to touch that lolly water crap if I wasn’t pregnant.
    I miss alcohol. I miss coffee. I miss a time when I could look at Jack, and not want to wrap my little hands around his throat. Oh, right … that’s never happened, because he’s always made me feel homicidal. I’m still so pissed about the way he kicked me out two nights ago, and at breakfast this morning, it took everything in me not to launch myself over the table and stuff his stack of pancakes down his throat until he choked.
    I sigh, and push the cheesecake away before I slip into a food coma. I pray that nobody calls me on the fact that I almost consumed an entire family-sized cheesecake. By myself . Right after dinner. I can already feel my arse widening.
    I should probably go and check on Bob. I’ve never seen him so quiet, not even when he lost Ana’s mum. Of course, the fact that he’s been nursing a bottle of bourbon since he woke this morning may have something to do with that. It’s kinda hard to form words when you’re finding the answers to the meaning of it all at the bottom of a bottle of Jack.
    Ana’s tried speaking to him, taking the alcohol away—she’s tried everything but shoving Sammy under his nose, and dousing the man in freezing-cold water to get him to wake up to himself. She’s pacing, and plying Sammy with more Ana Cabanna Chocolate Banana Cream Surprise Pies than he could ever eat.
    We all deal with grief in different ways. Ana’s way is to become Betty Crocker 2.0, and hypo-glycaemic everyone to death.
    The others have gone to see what they can salvage from the house,