I hope one day that she’ll want to be my best friend again.
I know it’s not much, but I’ve been working really hardto learn where to put commas and asking myself the hard questions the old me would never ask.
The one question that comes up every day is simple: “Do you love her, Ace?”
And the answer is always the same.
“More than myself. More than existence. More than the stars.”
I hope one day, when you ask yourself the hard questions, your answer says you love me too.
Love, Ace
Tears fill my eyes and hope blooms in my chest.
Maybe we’re fixable after all.
Ace
I’m not proud of how I’ve been living.
There’s a half-eaten takeout sandwich on my coffee table that’s probably growing a new strain of penicillin. My couch has swallowed me whole, and my TV has been playing a loop of old basketball highlights for…a while. It’s dark. Maybe on purpose. And I might smell curdled milk on the shirt I haven’t washed in I don’t know how long.
I’ve only left my apartment once today to grab some food. But the entire time, I couldn’t get the vision of Julia and Drew—or the fact that they’re supposedly moving in together—out of my fucking head.
When the door buzzes, I ignore it.
When it buzzes again, I groan and shout toward no one, “I’m not dead, but I’m working on it!”
It buzzes forty times in a row, so finally giving in, I shuffle over and crack open the door, only to be met by the smug, judgmental smirk of my father.
“Well, shit,” Thatch says, stepping inside uninvited. “You look like warm sushi in a dog’s asshole.”
I try to shove the door closed as I reply, “Come back later. After someone in the building calls about a smell coming from my apartment that’s my rotting corpse.”
He stops the door with his big clown foot and shoves his way inside, and I wrap the blanket I’m wearing as a cloak around myself tighter.
“Holy fuck, Acer.” He sniffs the air and instantly recoils. “What actually died in here?”
“My will to live?”
Thatch kicks aside a pile of laundry with his boot. “Christ. You’re sulking.”
“I’m not sulking.”
He raises a brow. “You’re sulkingwith texture. C’mon, get dressed.”
“What?”
“We’re going out. I made a dinner reservation.”
I look down at myself. “You think I’m in any condition to be seen in public?”
“You’re almost twenty years old. Being disgusting is literally your whole personality,” he says. “And here—wear this.” He throws something at me. I catch it. It’s a cardigan. Like…a varsity-style letterman sweater.
“Are you serious?”
“It’s vintage,” he shrugs. “Your mom bought it. Said it would make your shoulders look broad. Get your ass dressed.”
