“So what are you gonna do about your Six-and-a-Half blood prince then?”
I pop another grape.
“Nothin’. He’s the one with the feelings. I just… borrowed them for a night or two.”
(And now they’re burning a hole through my ribcage, homesick and trying to find their way back to him.)
She’s watching me,
one brow raised and suspicious.
She knows I’m full of shit.
My eyes drop back to her cellular device.
I stand,
stretch,
casually reaching for her phone,
the way murderers whistle before they stab someone.
“I’m gonna use the bathroom,” I say,
breezy, nonchalantly, non-criminal.
She hums,
not looking up.
Idiot.
And then I’m gone,
phone in hand,
conscience dead.
In seconds, the bathroom door's locked,
and I'm yanking the shower curtain back
to step into the tub.
Because that’s where you stay safe from
tornadoes, hurricanes,
and girls from the Bronx.
I type in the passcode.
(Don’t ask me how I know it. I know everything. I am God today.)
Contacts. Dr. Mitchell—therapist.
My finger hovers,
