Me. The guy everyone used to fall over for. Now I’m the one ready to drop to my knees and beg him, throw my pride out the window, tell him he fucking wins.
He comes back.
My walking disaster returns holding two identical drinks and hands me one.
"What’s this?" I yell into his neck.
"Drink," he says. "It’s not poison, Gio."
I lift the glass while looking at him, take a sip, taste it, and lean into his neck again.
He got rum.
"I thought you hated rum."
Rava grabs my shoulder and pulls me closer so he can speak directly into my ear.
"I love it now," he says. "I could drink rumallday."
Perfect.
Before, I wanted to be a collar.
Now I want to be a bottle of rum.
I’m not well. I’m genuinely not well.
Rava takes another sip, eyes on me, moving with the beat of “Secrets” by Tiesto in that slow, hypnotic way, barely trying andstillruining my life.
I’m terrified my head is actually swaying with him, like my body synced itself to his movements without asking.
Everything about him is a dream.
The way he stands. The way he looks. The way he moves.
He hypnotizes me against my will.
Cancels every coping strategy I’ve tried to build.
I take another sip and let the burn scrape down my throat.
If I wasn’t driving, I’d be drunk already. But I’m honestly scared that even that wouldn’t help, it would probably make me think about him even more.
Someone tries to pass behind him and Rava collapses into me. Our drinks are the only things keeping our chests from locking together.
He’s so close I’m inhaling his hair.
Thank God for the loud music, because if it were quieter he’d hear my heart exploding.
It’s embarrassing. Humiliating, even.
He looks to the side.
Please don’t turn your face toward me. Don’t look at me.
I admit it, you have made me weak, but don’t make it worse. Don’t kill me here, in public.
I lift my hand and place it on his chest, gently, just enough to move him back one step.
