Yes. We can. Just. Like. This.
I almost whisper please into his mouth, knowing that he’s one lick away from giving into anything I ask, but then he pulls back and his eyes meet mine and our breath mingles together between us. The way he’s looking at me—so much desire mixed with so much compassion—it breaks me. His pain—the way he seems to be a conduit for everything I’m feeling—wrecks me like a pickaxe slicing through snow. My forehead finds the dip between his pecs and his arms wrap around me and all of the ice and rock I let pile up in layers, those mountains of protective bullshit, the Jenga towers of control, come crumbling down onto Jeff while I shake and sob against him. Somewhere in the background, Hugh Jackman sings about coming alive and I wish it were that easy.
Dr. Hotass—formerly Dr. Dick
Dr. Hotass—formerly Dr. Dick: Can I take you somewhere after CHOP?
Devon: Who’s this?
Dr. Hotass—formerly Dr. Dick: The man who carried your snoring ass upstairs and tucked you in last night.
Devon: Oh god. That’s creepy as hell.
Thank you for last night. I blame the cupcakes for that crash.
I’m sorry I passed out on you.
And cried on you.
Dr. Hotass—formerly Dr. Dick: And drooled cupcake icing on me.
Devon: To be clear, you are asking me on a date tonight?
Dr. Hotass—formerly Dr. Dick: Do you want it to be a date?
I could invite Kevin and Mer along.
Devon:
Do you want me to bring 50 Shades on our date tonight?
Dr. Hotass—formerly Dr. Dick: Nah. I think we have enough ammunition.
Devon: Do you have a Red Room in that granny apartment of yours?
Dr. Hotass—formerly Dr. Dick: Save some surprises for later, Devon.
Devon: Can I call you, sir?
Dr. Hotass—formerly Dr. Dick: See you soon, Cupcake.
Devon:
Chapter Thirty-Three
Jeff
Lesson 34: Beware teenage drivers.
“Tell me which bridge I’m supposed to take home again.”
“Syd, honey there’s at least four bridges that will take you back to Jersey. And you have the app telling you directions,” Devon says, patting Syd’s arm.
I can barely hear the two of them over the wind that’s attacking me from all angles. When I’d hopped into the convertible this morning and asked Syd why the hell the top was down in November, she’d pointed to the sun and told me she needed all of the vitamin D she could get.
“Ok. You’re right. I got this. You two need to be careful though. There’s some really bad parts in Philly,” Syd yells over the wind as her speedometer needle approaches 70 mph. Like Philly is what’s endangering us right now.
We are flying down Christopher Columbus Boulevard at a speed that would surely eject me across the river into Camden if I were stupid enough not to wear a seatbelt and we were to crash.
