“I don’t know that, actually.”

He sighs again, and then he twirls me around, pushes me towards the counter, and presses me against it so I’m looking out the window over the kitchen sink. His breath is coming out in long draws, tickling the skin on the back of my neck. And each time it does, his chest presses against my back. His fingers snake up underneath my shirt, and he grabs the cup of my bra and yanks it down, making my nipple spill out into his palm.

He squeezes.

Fuck.

“Give me your left hand,” he whispers into my neck.

Now what is he up to? I want to ask, but he’ll just give me one of those exasperated sighs, and bark, Shannon. Do what you’re told. So I hold out my left hand, palm up, and he lets go of my breast so he can wrap his arms all the way around me and take my hand in his.

“Pay attention,” he says. And then he uses his finger to draw on the palm of my hand. “What did I just write?”

Really? He wants to play games?

“Answer me, dammit.”

“I don’t know,” I snap. “Do it again.”

He does it again and this time his touch tickles my palm so bad, I can feel it tingle long after he stops. “What did I write?”

I take a breath, but my eyes close. Why does he make me feel this way?

“Shannon,” he barks. “Fucking answer me.”

“The square root of two over two,” I say.

“Why did I write that?”

“It’s those stupid coordinates on the unit circle test that I didn’t know.”

“God, sometimes I think you’re deaf. Because if you’re not deaf, then I have to wonder why you deliberately refuse to listen to me. Why did I write that?”

“Dick,” I say. “Because you’re gonna tell me something about it.”

His hand steals back inside my shirt and palms my breast again. “Good girl. Finally you’re paying attention. It’s a trick, Shannon. A game to help you remember the x and y coordinates. You told me the first day we met your memory is what makes you smart. Unlike you, I listen to the things you tell me, so I came up with a plan to use your talent to help you pass trig. And if you had let me show it to you earlier instead of insisting on taking a test you were so clearly not ready for, you’d be in a better mood right now, I guarantee it.”

I sigh.

“Look at your hand.”

I glance down.

“If your left hand is the upper right quadrant of the unit circle, and your fingers represent the angles of the unit circle, and your pinky is zero degrees, what’s the angle measure of the finger where I’ll put your wedding ring one day?”

“You did not just say that.”

“Answer me.”

“Thirty degrees.”

I can feel him smile into my neck and I have to take a deep breath at that.

“What’s the finger you use to flip me off?”

“Forty-five degrees.”

“And the one you point at me when you’re pissed?”

“Sixty degrees.”

“Thumb?”

“Ninety.”

“Who says you’re not smart? You memorized those OK, right?”

“Fourth graders probably know that much, Mateo. I don’t need a pep talk.”

“Now listen carefully, because what I’m going to show you is magic.”

“You’re so stupid.”

“What did I write on your palm?”

“The square root of two over two.”

“OK, now forget about the twos. There’s a square root sign and a fraction line. Here’s how to remember the coordinates of the unit circle just by looking at your left hand and knowing which angle each finger represents…”

So he tells me.

And he’s right. It’s memory magic. I will never forget this trick as long as I live, that’s how simple it is.

“So when you show up in my kitchen tomorrow to take that test, just remember what I showed you. Now tell me what happened that you needed to go to the ER.”

I tell him. I watch his reflection in the window as I talk. I don’t know if he knows I can see him, because he never glances back at me. But I can tell that he’s sorry he wasn’t there when I needed help, because the frown on his face grows longer and longer as the story goes on.

“I’m sorry. Is it better now?” he asks, lifting my hair aside to look at my ear.

“It’s better,” I say. “I get them all the time and I usually I can just use the leftover drops from the last time to stop it from getting that bad. But I guess my drops were expired and they didn’t work.”

“OK.” He sighs like he’s satisfied with my story. I’m not sure how to take that, but he doesn’t give me much time to wonder about it, because he says, “Be at my house tomorrow after school, and be ready to make good on our deal.”

He starts to back away from me, but I grab his arm and hold him there. “I think we should start over, Mateo. If you really do like me, then let’s just start over and try this all again.”

His face screws up. “We’re not starting over, Shannon. I didn’t do all this fun shit just to wipe the slate clean and pretend it didn’t happen. You come to my house, you take your clothes off, you study at my kitchen table naked, you suck my dick, you take the test, and if you get one right, I’ll lick your pussy until you come. If you pass that test tomorrow, Shannon, I’ll fuck your brains out and you will forget all about starting over because what I will do to your body will be so addictive, you will never want me to stop. Do you understand?”

Why did I ever think he’d give in to me? Why did I ever think I had the power in this relationship? He mows me over like a steamroller.

“Do you. Under. Stand?”

“Got it,” I say.

“You know, there’s something to be said for the wisdom of experience. That’s a lesson you need to learn. Now eat your dinner and go to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I watch him as he turns and walks to the slider and pulls it open. But he stops again and looks me in the eyes. “And you’re coming to Hawaii with me. So just accept it. And let that fuck of a brother-in-law know you won’t be babysitting that week.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“Triangles are your friend,” Mateo says the next day as I wait on his stoop at the back door. He’s standing on the other side of the screen, shirtless, and looking like a fucking monster of muscle and masculinity.

“Just let me in,” I say.

“They have all the answers, Shannon.”

“It’s fucking raining, Mateo. Just let me in.”

“And if you know certain things about your triangle, you can find out missing information.”

I sigh. “Got it. Let me in or I’m going home. I’m all fucking wet.”

“You know when triangles are not your friend?”

“Tell me.” I give up. He’s musing. I have come to the conclusion that Mateo is one of those deep people. People who think too fucking much. I’m not a thinker, I go on instincts. And right now, my instincts are begging me to just tell him what he wants to hear.

“When you’re in a relationship.”