She’s not yours.
I should just tell Rooke to stop sending me fucking Nietzsche quotes and just admit he’s obsessed with me. I mean, why the fuck else would he keep messaging me, when I’ve made it blatantly fucking obvious I want nothing to do with him?
But then I’m at the Airbnb, and all I want is something from the takeout bags that’ll ease my stomach, and passing out with my girl in my arms for a few hours.
The room above the garage is empty.
My phone is immediately out, battery still dangerously low, so I’m fumbling with the charger from my hoodie while placing a call to Haven.
Her tote bag isn’t on the coffee table where I saw it last.
The bed’s unmade. There’s a hint of deodorant in the air. My football jersey has been tossed onto the back of the sofa like she was in too much of a hurry to put it in the unofficial laundry pile in the corner of the bathroom.
My call goes to voicemail.
My mind goes to worst-case scenario.
The message that comes through while I’m standing there, shoulders slumped and one hand in my hair, only heightens my paranoia.
@inherentvice
When she needs what you can’t give, who will she turn to?
My thumbs blur over the screen, shooting off messages.
@wanderkind
Is she with you?
Tell her to go fuck herself
I’m done
DONE
I wait, my chest rising and falling in a near-pant.
@inherentvice
She’ll be here soon.
You can join us if you want, boy.
But just know, I’ll be doing all the fucking.
His reply locks up my chest and sends a hot flush over my face. I’m so stunned and sickened by his gall, I’m still staring at the screen as he sends another message.
@inherentvice
The woods are lovely, dark and deep
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep
A strangled sound escapes my throat.
I’m only vaguely aware of pulling up the Uber app. Ordering another ride. Confirming the trip. There’s too much fury seething inside my aching head.
