I grab the V of TT’s shirt with both hands, not really sure what I’m gonna do, or even why I’m so mad. But it’s the weirdest thing. It’s like I know I’m gonna know any minute, y’know? Like, if I just let myself go through with what I’m doing (I’ve never fought or threatened anyone before), my own reasons for doing it will get clear.

And they do, almost as soon as the little fucker spouts off at the mouth, crying, “Ewwww, what’s wrong with you?! Jo, tell this old man to let me go! He’s disgusting!”

My vague rage sharpens, and I picture pivoting and throwing TT like a tiny sack of rats down his own stairs, watching his baby bones break and his kid face snap and splatter apart like fucken fruit.

“Why would I do that?” Jolene asks, as clear and simple as one might ask the time.

“Are you fucking this old bastard?” TT gasps. He starts to wriggle and writhe like he’s trying to get away, but he’s weak as fuck . . . almost disapointingly puny.

“What if I am?” says Jolene, and I turn to look at her, confused.

“Ewwww,” repeats TT, and I lift a hand into position to break his Instagram-ready mug and hopefully fuck his whole pointless career for good.

He flinches, and shakes, and his legs cross daintily like he’s a lady holding in pee lest he wet himself from fear. 

“Fuck you!” I repeat, still sort of questioning myself as to why I’ve taken this whole situation the way I have.

TT’s eyes snap shut as if he can keep himself safe in his own inner world. Then he whispers, “We didn’t do anything, Trixie and me.”

My eyes widen.

“What?!” Jolene demands.

“I didn’t fuck Trixie, ok?” snapps TT. “Or the others.”

“Why?!” I shout, still getting used to the unprecedented sound of myself yelling.

“I don’t know,” he warbles like a cat trapped in a tiny cubby after days. “I don’t know! That’s just not what we’re really into. We take sexy pics, yes. We post. We just hang out naked on our phones, but…”

“But what?” Jolene replies, her voice almost soft. I can tell she’s genuinely interested in what the scared little shit’s about to say.

“But nothing. It’s just no big deal. I want you to think I’m fucking these girls. I want the world to think that. They want it too. But honestly, we can’t be fucked.”

And that’s my reason. That’s why I hate (HATE!!!) this wretched waste of sperm. Now I know, and it hits me like a fucking defribulator jolt. All my mopey woe-is-me bullshit, sitting secluded in my empty room, pissing away time while my lazy ass earns money doing nothing, dreaming desperately for the slightest glimpse or brush of an actual ass . . . and this feckless dickwad can’t even be bothered putting his phone down to fuck the hot girls he’s constantly surrounded by. He wants Jolene to think he’s fucking, but really he’s not even interested.

He tries to pull himself free again, and I slam my knee into his guts in hopes of launching his spine out his back.

He doubles over, but I don’t let him fall to the ground. Now I’m holding his meager weight in one hand like a preschooler’s cute miniature backpack.

Another thought occurs to me: I’m gonna die soon anyway, right? That’s why I’m free now to eye girls’ bodies uninhibited, and not give a fuck. Well, that also means I could beat the living shit out of this pathetic asshole and not have to worry about the consequences (yeah, I might just have to speed up my suicide plans). Actually, I could seriously injure him, and make him really pay for playing cool Jolene the fucked up way he did. Hell, I could kill the bastard.

Almost like an afterthought, my free hand wanders to his throat, and I wrap the fingers almost all the way around. He starts to choke and sputter, crying without even trying anymore to give the impression of being anything but a frightened child.

I lower my face to his, surprised at how blank and blasé I feel about the prospect of actually killing. I mean, I could watch the life literally leave this pest’s dying eyes, and be totally cool with it . . . then drive home with Jolene, even laugh with her again like nothing. I picture how fun it will be, once I’m done putting TT out of his misery. For some reason, I see Jolene and I happy the whole way home, and me not even worried every second that our shared joy’s just about to run out.

“Don’t do it.” Her voice behind and above me reminds me she’s still there.

I turn to face her again, my eyes asking for clarity.

“Let him go,” she sighs. “He’s not worth it.”

And instantly, I know she’s right. More than knowing, I see in a moment this whole big snapshot of TT’s life . . . having everything easily, but enjoying nothing . . . bitter, and fast, and pointless, and definitely not worth another second of my time.

I release my grip. TT falls with a thud to the floor and starts to breathe all fast and funny.

“You leave Jolene the fuck alone!” I scream, sort of impressed with myself for sounding so damn threatening (for real!).

“Ok. Ok,” he mumbles, rasping, his voice clearly hindered.

“You’re not worth it,” Jolene concludes, summing up TT’s existence, and then steps in front of me without saying any more to head back down the stairs.

I turn to follow, speechless.

One thing I know for sure: I’ll never be back to fucking Blythe.