Guess twenty-eight days was all it took for the fantasy to crack.
A couple of hours of real conversation and
ta-da?—
he realized what everyone eventually does:
The dream girl’s an idiot.
She’s all mouth, no mind.
Good for a few orgasms, that’s it.
I set the phone face-down on my thigh
and tell myself I don’t care.
This is good. It’s for the best.
The healthiest route for everyone.
A crackle comes through the earpiece.
Then Celie’s voice slams into my eardrums:
“He wore the blue shirt. Lord, take me now, Ilovethe blue shirt.”
Her breath catches, all dreamy and doomed.
“What you think that means?”
I rub my temples.
“Don’t overanalyze everything. Just breathe.”
Superb advice, coming from someone who’s building an entire conspiracy theory on why Andrew hasn’t texted.
Maybe I talked too much.
Maybe I laughed too hard.
Maybe I fucking farted without realizing it?
Yeah. Maybe I blacked out mid-conversation
and ripped one.
“Drake!” she says,
all cracked-out Christmas cheer.
“You’re here. Breathing. Alive.
“Still handsome. Good job.”
Drake’s voice cuts through.
“So. We doing this, or…?”
