The Reckless Collision

Ray

~~~

As the end credits rolled and the room filled with light, I blinked twice, realizing Sam hadn't come back yet. I figured she needed some alone time. By now, I'd gotten used to her habits. It used to sting—the way she'd sometimes choose solitude over being with me—but I'd learned not to take it personally. She wasn't shutting me out; she just needed space, and that had nothing to do with me.

The pizza was cold by then, and most of the guests had moved on to picking at snacks. I gathered the leftovers into one box and stacked the empty ones on the counter. The others had drifted outside to smoke, leaving the house unusually quiet. I switched the TV off and turned on the stereo, keeping the volume low enough to catch any sounds from the house.

The kitchen was a mess, as expected. Between the cocktails and snack refills, it looked like a mini hurricane had passed through. I poured myself a glass of whiskey and started tossing trash into the bin. Sam had been reorganizing the house recently, and thankfully, the kitchen was one of the few areas that already felt settled. Finding the disposable towels wasn't the scavenger hunt it usually was.

I cleaned the living room table, swapped out the empty snack trays for fresh ones, and restocked the cooler with drinks. When I stepped back to take a look, the space felt refreshed—cleaner, and more welcoming. Just in time, too. The chatter from outside signaled that everyone was coming back in.

"You didn't even say hi," Courtney said, her voice cutting through the moment as I loaded the dishwasher.

I looked up, catching her eye. Her lipstick was smudged just below her bottom lip where she'd been nervously biting it. "Didn't see the point," I said flatly. Her brows knitted together, and she tilted her head. "Why did you come here?" I closed the dishwasher with a soft click and leaned back against the counter, crossing my arms.

"You got shot, Ray," she said, circling the kitchen island like a predator stalking its prey. "I was texting you and trying to call, but you never replied."

"That should've been a hint."

She ignored the jab, leaning her hip against the island and letting her hair cascade over her shoulder. "You know I don't deal well with rejection."

"It's not rejection," I replied, grabbing a glass from the cupboard. "And for the record, you were texting me before the shooting."

"Fine," she said, stepping closer, her heels clicking softly against the tiled floor. "I heard rumors you were dating, but no one knew who. Then I saw that photo of you at some book signing in New York. I guess now I know why."

"Yes," I said, meeting her gaze head-on. "She's very accomplished."

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and I could see the crack forming in her composure. "Are you saying I'm not?" Her voice was sharp, her tone brittle.

"I'm not saying anything," I replied, keeping my tone deliberately calm.

It was a cheap shot, and I knew it. The whiskey I'd been sipping earlier was likely hitting harder than I'd expected. Still, I couldn't help myself. I knew exactly where to strike, and the flare of her nostrils told me I'd hit the mark.

"I am accomplished," she snapped, narrowing her eyes at me.

"And yet," I said, a smirk tugging at my lips, "no one's taking pictures of you or writing articles about you."

Her jaw tightened, and her voice dropped to a hiss. "If I got shot by a crazed maniac, people would talk about me too. I don't need a dramatic scandal to be known."