And I never want him to stop.
15
Win
Ithink Remy regrets the doorbell.
He greeted me this morning with a screeched, “I’m sick of all these fucking notifications of your fucking face,” through the speaker as I dropped off his post-workout smoothie. Clearly, kickboxing with his bestie hadn't improved his mood.
He sequestered himself for three more days after I installed the doorbell, effectively forcing my hand to either break into his apartment or summon assistance. Since I wasn't in the mood to get arrested, I had no other choice but to create an Instagram and message Andrea, who responded with a string of gifs that took me entirely too long to decode. (Apparently a chihuahua in a Superman shirt, a cartoon bunny on a pogo stick and a creepy guy dressed in an angel outfit holding a penguin as he floated down the street meant she was coming to the rescue.) She swooped in with a key to his place—lucky bitch—and dragged a kicking and screaming Remy out by his hair.
While I’m content to ignore the fact that my presence worsens his depressive episodes, I can’t stand aside while he drowns. SoI’ve reluctantly taken a minuscule step back— hanging out in the parking lot rather than at his door— and let Andrea be there for him in my place. If I had my way, I’d be up his ass.
Literally and figuratively.
I twirl the toothpick I’ve been gnawing for the last twenty minutes while counting the stars and contemplating the consequences of buying a pack of cigarettes. Gum makes my jaw ache. Toothpicks taste like shit. I’d inhale an entire vape cart in three seconds flat if given the chance.
“Back so soon?”
The toothpick falls from my fingertips.
Andrea drums her black painted nails on the hood of Mom’s Rover as she circles the nose to where I’m leaning against the driver’s side debating the reintroduction of poison into my lungs.
“I could say the same to you,” I muse, nodding at the apartment complex. “If you want some chicken tikka masala, I’m sure he won’t eat it all.”
Her lips curve into a smirk. “You’ve stooped to bribing him with food, Pooh Bear?”
I roll my eyes at the old nickname. “You of all people know that when he's going through it he won’t feed himself.”
A piece of red-streaked hair blows straight out with her sigh as she slumps beside me, facing the stairs of Remy's building. She crosses her arms, the fabric of her black dress stretched tight over her tits. I scrutinize her micro-mini. My scowl deepens when I notice she's sporting fishnets and platform boots.
I cock a brow.
She mirrors my expression.
“A bit overdressed to binge-watch trashy reality TV, hmm?”
Examining her pointed talons, she shrugs. “We have other plans.”
A pack of cigarettes no longer sounds like a temptation; it’s a damn necessity.
“You’re not fucking him.”
She snorts. “Don’t worry, Winnie, as attractive as he is, Remy’s not my type.” I squint at her skeptically. A snarky chuckle escapes her. “Put it this way: he’s not enough of an asshole.”
I pluck a new toothpick from my pocket.
“I beg to differ. He’s the total asshole package.”
Her pert nose wrinkles in disgust. “Tell me that's not an innuendo.”
I smirk, weaving the thin, smooth wood between my fingers.
“You put ‘Remy’ and ‘asshole’ in a sentence, what did you expect?”
A small hand whacks the center of my chest. I cough, grinning.
“I don’t want to hear your side of this toxic obsession too.”
