It’s after six o’clock at night by the time I get back to the apartment. Olivia and I were hunkered down at the library longer than expected. And then, on the way home, we stopped and grabbed sandwiches from a deli on campus. Now that my belly’s full, I can put in a few more hours of studying for my test tomorrow.
I’m not one of those people who can waltz into an exam without glancing at the material and magically pull an A out of my ass. It doesn’t work that way for me. If I want to see results, I have to put in the effort.
Carter, on the other hand, has a photographic memory. It’s just one of the many things about that guy that drives me bonkers. I’ve rarely seen him study. And he has a near-perfect grade point average. I know this because he makes the dean’s list every semester.
As soon as I open the door to our apartment, the smell of brownies hits me. I can’t believe I forgot about them. For the first time since whipping up the dessert this afternoon, I have second thoughts about feeding them to Carter.
Damn Olivia for filling my head with doubts.
Unsure of what to do, I hesitate in the entryway before setting my bag down. Maybe I should dump the pan in the garbage and rethink my strategy. If I still want to go through with it, I can always whip up another batch.
Maybe I am taking my need for revenge too far.
Ugh.
I should have just listened to Olivia in the first place. God, I hate when she’s right. Decision made, I veer into the kitchen and toward the stove where I left the pan to cool. Wanting to make the brownies extra tempting, I bought a tub of chocolate frosting and left it sitting on the counter.
My footsteps slow as I realize the frosting has been opened. The foil wrapper from the top lies crumpled on the countertop. I glance from the frosting to the dessert, and my heart plummets. A third of the brownies has already been hacked from the pan. Crumbs cling to the stainless-steel knife that rests against the dark metal.
I’m too late.
My plan has unwittingly been set in motion, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
“Daisy?”
My head jerks up at the sound of my cousin’s voice. I peek through the kitchen opening and see Noah and his girlfriend lounging on the couch in the living room, watching TV.
Oh no.
It doesn’t take much to put two and two together.
“Hi,” I squeak out.
What am I supposed to do now?
Tell him?
Or wait it out and see what happens?
I didn’t even eat the brownies, and I feel sick to my stomach.
“Hey, did you make those brownies?” Noah’s arm is slung around Ashley, and she’s cuddled up against his side.
What do I do?
What do I do?
What do I do?
Calm down and just breathe. “Um, yeah.” I cough to clear the nervousness from my voice. “Why?”
I’m kicking myself for not listening to Olivia.
“Because they were seriously tasty.” He flashes me a grin. “I hope you weren’t saving them for something special.”
Oh God.
I glance at the pan, wishing I could rewind time.
Maybe it’s not as bad as I think. Only a little more than a third is missing. I look at Noah and Ashley and try to rationalize my way out of this situation. They probably shared the dessert. If they each had a huge hunk, how much damage could the laxatives do to their systems? It’ll clean out their bowels for sure, but it’s not going to kill them.
Right?
Right?
They’ll be fine. This is not a big deal. There’s no need to tell them about the secret ingredient. I brighten at the thought that they might not have finished their pieces. Who eats all their dessert, anyway?
I mean, I do, but still…
I bet if I check the trash can, I’ll find a good portion of it in there.
The tight knot sitting in my belly loosens. “No, I didn’t make them for anything special.”
You know what else?
I’ve learned a valuable lesson today. And that lesson would be to think before doing anything drastic such as whipping up a batch of laxative brownies. I’m sure Olivia will be very proud when I share my epiphany with her.
But first, I need to ask one little question. “So, did you, um, both enjoy the dessert?”
Ashley wrinkles her nose and shoots me a look like I just asked her to kill a sack full of puppies. Her thin face takes on even more of a pinched quality than usual.
Hmmm.
Would it really be so bad if she had a crap-o-thon in the bathroom?
Maybe not.
“Are you kidding me? I would never eat that garbage.” Her upper lip curls with disdain. “Do you have any idea how many empty calories and grams of saturated fat are in something like that? It’s the equivalent of putting poison in your body.”
Normally, I would roll my eyes and walk away, but I can’t do that given the circumstances. Because if Ashley didn’t eat any of the brownies, that means…
I stare at Noah in slack-jawed horror. “You ate a third of the pan yourself?” My voice comes out sounding choked.
Please, please, please, tell me Carter was here and helped himself to the dessert, too.
Noah pats his flat belly. “Yup. Did I mention how delicious they were? Almost as good as Mom’s.”
I doubt Aunt Marnie’s secret ingredient is chocolate-flavored laxatives.
“Yeah,” I admit, my voice cracking on that one syllable. “You did.”
I wring my hands, trying to come up with a plan. Well, another plan. After this, there are no more plans. I’m officially resigning from plans.
Should I come clean and confess that I doctored up the brownies or stay silent? I gnaw my lower lip in silent debate. I mean…it’s possible the stimulant won’t have any effect on Noah. He easily weighs over two hundred pounds. Probably more like two-twenty or even two-thirty.
I narrow my eyes and look him over more carefully. Yeah, he’s definitely packed on a few pounds. That should work in my favor.
Just as that thought scampers through my mind, Noah shifts on the couch. His brows draw together as he lays a hand on his lower abdomen and rubs it. “I think I overdid it on the brownies.”
Ashley picks up her head from his chest. “I told you not to eat so much of them. Your stomach is gurgling.” She wrinkles her nose. “It’s kind of gross, babe.”
He pulls her back against him and rubs her shoulder. “I’m fine. No worries. Did I ever tell you about the time I demolished an entire strawberry-rhubarb pie in ten minutes flat? If that didn’t make me sick, nothing will. I’ve got an iron gut.” He glances at me. “You remember that, Daze?” He shakes his head and smiles. “Mom was so pissed!”
I nod at the memory. “Yeah. Junior year of high school.” I’d thought Aunt Marnie was going to wring his neck. She’d picked the rhubarb and strawberries from her garden and had made the pie specifically for a party.
He grins, and they go back to watching TV.
I jerk my thumb toward the kitchen even though neither of them are paying me the least bit of attention. “I’m, ah, going to…” I don’t bother finishing the sentence. Instead, I back into the kitchen to hide.
I’m tempted to pick up my bag and duck out for the rest of the evening, but I can’t do that to Noah. I need to make sure he’s all right. Whatever happens is my fault. Even if he doesn’t realize it yet.
“Hey, Daze, would you mind getting me a ginger ale from the fridge?” he asks. “My stomach feels funky.”
“Um, yeah,” I call back. “No problem.” I grab a bottle of soda and head into the living room.
Is it my imagination or does Noah look pale?
Maybe a little sweaty?
And he’s shifting around as if he’s sitting on pins and needles and trying to get comfortable.
“Are you okay?” I pass him the bottle.
He turns to Ashley and says, “Babe, would you mind moving over and giving me some room?”
Ashley scoots a couple of feet away, and Noah sits more upright. With his elbows perched on his knees, he twists off the cap from the ginger ale and takes a small swig.
“I must have eaten something that doesn’t agree with me.” Noah’s stomach lets loose a long gurgle of distress. “I feel terrible.”
Ashley folds her arms against her chest. “It’s the brownies. I told you not to eat so much. Your body’s rebelling against all the sugar.” She glances at her phone and then at him. “We’re supposed to meet Katie and Harper at the movie theater in an hour.”
“I’ll be fine,” he assures her.
But he looks far from fine.
The door to the apartment opens, and Carter strolls in with a duffle bag hoisted over a shoulder. Pausing in the living room, he stares at us one by one. “What’s going on?”
“Oh…um…” I stutter, studying the seams in the floorboards.
“Noah’s not feeling well,” Ashley pipes up.
Carter takes a closer look at his friend. “You okay, man?” He takes a few steps in Noah’s direction. “Anything I can do?”
My cousin drags a hand over his face and shakes his head. “No. My stomach is just a little unsettled.” His intestines rumble more loudly than before.
Carter drops his bag and goes to the kitchen. Grabbing a glass from the cupboard, he fills it from the tap and takes a long drink. “Hey? Who made brownies?”
Argh!
The brownies!
I sprint to the kitchen. As I turn the corner, Carter has the knife poised above the pan and is on the verge of cutting into the dessert. I grab a corner, jerking it from the counter and out of his reach.
“Hey!” He frowns. “I was just about to have a piece.”
“No, you’re not. I’m throwing them away,” I babble. “They aren’t any good.”
He holds the knife in the air as I open the cabinet under the sink where the garbage is located and dump the entire thing—pan and all—into the trash bin.
Carter’s eyes widen, and he stares at me like I’m a complete psycho. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Noah isn’t the only one sweating bullets. Perspiration beads the back of my shirt and the crevice between my breasts. My palms are so slick that I wipe them on my jeans.
“Nothing,” I mumble, staring over his shoulder.
Carter sets the knife down and leans against the counter before folding his arms against his chest. “You’d rather throw the brownies out than let me have any?” Anger, and something that sounds a lot like hurt, tinge his voice.
“Not, of course not,” I blurt. My shirt is drenched. It’s plastered against my back. I shift from one foot to the other.
He tilts his head, his gaze pinning me uncomfortably in place. “Then why’d you do it?”
“Because…” At a loss for words, I stare at him helplessly as my mind spins out of control. I’m in such deep shit. I’m practically drowning in it.
Carter arches a brow. After a few beats of silence, he drawls, “Because why?”
“Because,” I repeat, “Noah ate some, and now he doesn’t feel good.” I clear my throat and forge ahead with the half-truth. “Maybe there was something wrong with them.” Inspiration strikes, and I straighten to my full height. “Maybe he has food poisoning, you know? Like salmonella or something like that.”
No. That’s way too specific. I need to keep it vague. I’m not good at this whole lying thing. I’d make a terrible criminal. The truth sits on the tip of my tongue. Any moment, it’s going to burst free and put me out of my misery.
“What?” Noah shouts from the other room. “You think I have salmonella?”
“I don’t know,” I mutter. Talk about a tangled web of lies and deceit. Every time I open my mouth, it only gets worse. “Who knows. It’s possible, right?”
“I don’t think so,” Ashley chimes in. “From everything I’ve learned in my nutrition classes, you have to consume raw eggs or chicken to contract salmonella.”
I glare at Ashley from the kitchen. She’s not helping the situation. Leave it to her to throw up unintentional roadblocks to my lies.
Noah bends over, rocking back and forth. “Oh God. I really don’t feel well.” He bolts off the couch and into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him.
Carter and I step further into the living room and stare at the closed bathroom door. Noah moans. A second later an explosion echoes off the walls. I bite my lip, hoping he at least made it to the toilet.
Ashley hops off the couch and grabs her purse. “I don’t think Noah’s going to make it to the movie. Tell him that if he feels better, he can meet up with us at the theater.”
Even though this is all my fault, I can’t help but frown at Ashley. “Aren’t you going to stay and take care of your boyfriend?”
“I wish I could, but I have plans that can’t be broken.” She glances at the bathroom and shrugs. “Plus, I don’t think Noah would want me to miss the movie. I’ve been dying to see it for weeks.” She turns on her heel and heads to the front door, leaving without even saying goodbye.
I’m just about to say something scathing when Noah lets out another groan.
“Call my mom, Daisy,” he moans. “I think I’m dying!”
I glance at Carter and find him watching me with narrowed eyes. I can almost see the gears turning in his head.
“What the hell did you do?” he growls, wincing as Noah whimpers.
To avoid fessing up, I run for my phone.
