is a beautifully wrapped trap.
This is why I don’t do intimacy.
This is why I do contracts and orgasms.
And I don’t know what’s worse:
waiting for his text,
feeling pathetic about waiting for his text,
or knowing he lived through twenty-eight nights of this agony, and I’m already wanting to burn my skin off after one.
I drop the phone in my lap,
borderline pissed off at it,
then turn,
facing the infamous bench of heartbreak.
Drake’s still not there.
“Yup,” Celie mutters,
rubbing a finger across her gums.
“Definitely OD’d.”
I pull the bill of my Yankees cap down
and sink into the shadows.
“It’s a gummy, Celie. Not heroin.”
She was only supposed to eat half.
She ate the whole thing.
I should’ve been supervising,
but I was too busy staring at my damn phone.
“It tasted like purple promises,” she whispers.
“Celie, focus. You’re getting your man back.”
She glances over her shoulder.
“I should go over there right now and wait, right? Like—boom—here's my heart back.”
I shake my head. “Nope. You are not a sad bitch waiting on a man.
“He waits onyou.”
She fidgets. “I’m gonna do something stupid.”
I don’t assure her. Because never, in my life, have I successfully stopped Celie from doing something stupid. Once the idea's trapped in her frontal lobe, it owns her. Same way thisAndrewowns me right now.
