There’s food on the floor,
lyrics in the margins,
pens running dry.
Somewhere in the chaos, the track builds.
Diggs picks up his guitar, toys with a riff.
The room hums—real, messy, alive,
cracking with emotion.
Then my phone buzzes on the coffee table.
I glance down.
“It’s Andrew.”
Celie squeals.
My eyes snap to her,
not realizing I said it out loud.
Diggs strums a lazy chord. “Who’s Andrew?”
Celie pops a fry in her mouth. “Pretty sure he was your bartender from last night.”
I whip around. “Celie.”
Ace groans from the chair,
face half-buried in his hand.
“Text him back. Ask him what funeral home he recommends.”
I roll my eyes.
Open the message.
And damn it.
I’m smiling again.
Today 7:39 PM
Andrew:
You delivered on your promise.
Left me on my knees, heart pounding, dick hard, holding your damn drink. 5% survival rate, tops. But I’d 100% let you do it again.
Thought your ‘on your knees’ line was a metaphor.
Yeah… that was a dumb mistake. So congrats. You win.
Now I’m done playing dirty.
