Andrea chucks another swatch card at her coworker. When I texted her this morning, she offered to pick me up on her way tothe salon. Whisked me away just in time, too. We sped out of the neighborhood right as Sebastian’s truck turned into it.
Immediately, I got a text.
Saint Seba:
I like you in pink.
Dad gave me his card to order myself some new clothes and shit. I've always had an eclectic style, but getting a compliment from Sebastian of all people on my rainbow rage reaper tee caught me off guard. I didn't know what to do with it, so I ignored it. No more than ten minutes later, another text came through.
Saint Seba:
Is it that you don’t want to be upstairs? Or do you just not wanna sleep in my old bed?
I fell for the bait.
Both
I’ll put the package for you on the couch then
A few minutes later…
Saint Seba:
What’s the name of that cologne you wear?
And a few minutes after that…
Saint Seba:
try one of the oranges on the counter when you get back.
And after that…
Saint Seba:
this song reminds me of you.
Yeah, I threw the phone at that one.
I meant it when I told him that he doesn’t deserve me. Hedoesn’t. But the more he opens his damned mouth— or phone— and says things I really wish he wouldn’t, the more I find myself second-guessing my resolve. Which never fucking happens. I’m the most decisive person on the planet.
Motherfucker has me by the nuts.
My phone vibrates with another message, rattling a line of nail polish bottles like broken piano keys.
Saint Seba:
Craving anything for dinner?
“Fuck my life,” I groan. “Help me.”
“Tell him you’re busy.” She shrugs as she applies a base coat to my freshly manicured nails. “Your girlfriend isservicingyou.”
“Are you offering to suck me off right now?”
She snorts. “You wish.”
“Upon every star.”
