“What about the theater?”
“Broke in with stolen keys.”
He shoots upright.
“WinstonfuckingRhodes, you did not!”
I’m shaking with silent laughter as he goes off on a rant about how we could’ve been arrested for trespassing on private property and instead of spending the night fucking, we would’ve been trying to explain to our parents how we ended up with felonies. If I don’t stop him, he’ll lecture me all night, so I make the executive decision to twist in his embrace, grasp his beautiful head and shut him up with a kiss.
Which turns into another kiss.
And another.
We’re not sleeping tonight…
47
Win
Coffee is the ultimate scam. It’s a deceptive elixir of the gods bestowed on us peasants to infuse us with a fraction of energy so addictive that as soon as we crash, we sprint back for more. A cycle we repeat in blind worship of the bitter bean liquid.
How the fuck is this shit not categorized as a hard drug?
Whatever, it tastes good.
I gulp down another giant mouthful of espresso as I speed out of the drive-through only to immediately catch a red light. Of course, I hit one of the four intersections in this fucking town when I’m about to piss myself. Might as well check the damage.
I flip the visor mirror open—
Jumpscare.
Smudged liner merges with the dark circles under my tired eyes. Three massive purple and red hickies mark my neck. (Is that a bite mark too?) My lips are still slightly swollen. There’s a permanent pink flush in my cheeks. More evidence hides beneath my clothes, clearly borrowed from my boyfriend.
Call me the, “Just fucked,” poster boy.
It’s not really the ideal look for accepting a job offer from my lawyer step-father, but at least I’m smiling, right?
My drastic change of heart happened midway through blowing Remy this morning. (I had no choice but to worship his sleepy, sexy nerdiness when he put those damn glasses on. They're my fucking kryptonite.) He’s mentioned internships and grad schools a few times, but I hadn’t read too far into it until breaking into his apartment to leave the note and chocolate. On the coffee table sat a stack of pamphlets, every single one boasting a program hours away from Fort Manor. One even as far north as Boston.
The solution is simple: Wherever he goes, I’ll follow. It’s not a matter of want. It’s a need. He makes me better.
He makes me want tobebetter.
I’m done bumming off Mom and Richard. I’ll take the job at Richard’s firm to save some cash while Remy finishes school even if it means I have to suck it up and work with judgy, snobby, gossiping incels. I’ll do anything to stay with him and prove I’m worthy.
A honk from behind.
Green light.Oops.
Snapping the visor up, I slam on the gas. Two streets later, I’m turning into Mom and Richard’s neighborhood, my thumbs tapping the steering wheel to the beat of one of Remy’s favorite pop songs. (Not that I’ll ever admit to him that I like it.) Despite the soreness in my ass, scattered hours of sleep and daunting life changes, I’m lighter than air, whistling as I park next to what must be one of Mom’s friend’s blacked-out Mercedes. It’s a little early, but maybe they went to Pilates or something this morning.
I chug the remains of my coffee while jogging up the steps, and waltz inside.
“Mom?”
My footsteps are bombs in the quiet foyer. I pause. Her friends are usually loud and yappy as fuck…
It’stooquiet.
