page by bloody fucking page.
Before this thing with Andrew goes any further. Before believing there’s a version of this where neither one of us gets hurt.
Helping Celie sort through the rubble of her love life might help.
Might remind me why I don’t do feelings.
Or relationships.
Or any of this shit.
I look at my best friend,
all red-eyed and desperate and dimples.
She wipes her nose and grins.
She knows I’ll do it.
“Goddammit.”
I snatch my purse off the counter.
“I’ll go find my Hooligan jersey.”
// 8:32 PM — WASHINGTON SQUARE PARK — GREENWICH VILLAGE, NYC //
Washington Square smells like weed, dosas crisping, and Chanel No. 5.
The cold wind's piercing through my hoodie
and I’m being stared down by the mob-boss of pigeons—three feet away, chest puffed, wings tight, head cocked.
Like he’s here to collect,
with eyes that’ve seen things.
He’s not asking.
He’s waiting,
like I owe him the last piece of my pretzel in exchange for protection.
I scoff. “You have no idea who I am, do you?”
He blinks.
He does the two-step shuffle.
He narrows his eyes.
“Try me, bird. I’ll salt you, fry you, then lick the grease off my fingers.”
I rip off another bite.
He doesn’t flinch.
Celie’s staring into a faraway land as if she’s about to be executed at dawn, last meal and all. Her pupils are two black holes wide enough to suck up planets. Her breathing’s shallow, exhaling pure panic. But she’s radiant—leather pants molded to her curves, dark silky curls, eyelids glittering.
