His hands.
His mouth.
His body pressed against mine.
The way I feel him
even though he’s not fucking here.
The way he hasn’t texted.
And I hate how much I care.
“Yo, he’s here. Oh my God,” Celie says,
all nerves.
Drake’s walking up,
wearing swag-full confidence.
A beautiful disaster in denim.
I snap into mission mode,
shove the earpiece in,
and clip the mic to her collar.
“Alright, Hoodrat,” I say, maternal and loving. The tone you use when you’re sending your bestie into battle. “Don’t take off your coat. Don’t talk back to me through the mic. Don’t repeat me word for word. Make it sound human. Be…casual.”
She processes the instructions.
“Casual,” she repeats,
eyes unblinking, glassy—high.
“Be the casual version of myself.”
I sigh.
Kiss her forehead.
And push her into war.
“Exactly. Now go.”
And then she’s walking in his direction.
I sink into the bench,
anxiety crawling up my throat,
I flip my phone over.
Again.
Nothing.
