finding warmth at the base of his spine.
“Yeah. That’s what I’m saying.”
His palm drags up my neck, then down again.
“What happened at Vice,
“that’s just gone now? You’re over it?
“Show up today with a blanket, a record,
“chocolates for my moms, and—what?
“That’s you not caring and rollin’ with the punches?”
He can keep asking,
change the words,
change the tone,
hold me close, sway me to Dean Martin.
It doesn’t change the answer:
I don’t give a fuck.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m over it.
“Whatever happens, happens, right?”
He lets out this huff of a laugh that knows where we’ve been.
And I wonder if that just threw him back to Type No. 45 too.
The beat right before we saidfuck it,
then gave ourselves permission to fall into everything we’ve always wanted.
Everythingwe didn’t think we deserved.
The night we let it beeverythingjust once.
‘Cause we didn’t think we’d get to keep it.
So we crashed into it witheverythingwe had,
and called it nothing.
His breath brushes my temple as he pulls back, his gaze climbing from my mouth to my eyes. “Miss Allison Taylor just hangin’ out in Jersey.”
“Yup.”
“Showin’ up on Thanksgiving,
“meetin’ my family,
“and it’s all nothin’.”
