So that’s what we do. Listen toTidal, drink liquor, and sing along when we can remember the words.
When the bar is finally shut, Davis walks us up to my apartment to “make sure you don’t pass out on those shit stairs.”
Ada rushes inside, but I linger with Davis. When he smiles at me, my gin-soaked body leans in for a hug.
He meets me with that T. Rex situation men do, where they try not to embrace the other person fully. An Almost Hug for an Almost Girl.
“Night, Cece,” he says roughly. “Drink some water.”
Then he’s gone, and I’m left watching the space where he stood, swaying slightly. Tristan Taylor’s Sister misses out again.
12
Ada
Nicotine gum is too hard. My jaw hurts from chewing all morning. But it’s doing the job, I guess. I’m officially twelve hours vape-free. I know, don’t rush-order the parade or anything.
I sit in my playpen watching the door. Not for a man. It’s been nine days since Jake told our classmates to back off. They took it so seriously you’d think he was the fucking FBI.
I commented, ‘Cute dog’ on Xavier McColl’s blue heeler puppy post, and he fuckingblocked me.
“No one from school with an XY chromosome will talk to me,” I complained to Jake when he got out of the shower the other day.
“Good. That means they’re not trying to fuck you,” he said, as he towel-dried his hair.
“Fuck me? They won’t make electronic eye contact with me.”
His only response was a satisfied smirk.
“Well, thanks, dickhole. I have plans, you know?”
“Youhadplans,” he corrected, crawling on top of me, clean, damp,and unfairly gorgeous. “Anyway, what are you thinking about those pricks when you could be thinking about me?”
Unfortunately, I did think about Jake. And then I had sex with him. Several dozen more times.
Actually, since the Stabbies-Thrasher incident, I’ve spent the majority of my existence with my ankles around Jake Graves-Holland’s neck. It’s really cutting into my drinking time. And my revenge plans. But that changed yesterday morning when Jake brought me a latte in bed. His machine’s so fancy, I couldn’t even feign Italian disgust. “Thanks.”
“Anytime. So, I’m headed to South Africa tomorrow,” he informed me as I sipped.
“Weird.”
“It’s for rugby.”
“’Kay.”
“Wanna come with me?”
“Have you gone totally crackers?”
“Fine, you don’t need to come this time?—”
“This time?”
“—but I’ll be thinking ’bout you non-stop, and I’ll text you whenever I can.”
“Please don’t.”
“Goes without saying, I won’t be with anyone else while I’m away.”
