Riot Act (Crooked Sinners)

by Callie Hart

“Can you deal with that, Chase? Do you think you can handle being loved by me? ’Cause I don’t think I can handle being without you anymore.” “Yes! Yes, oh my god, yes!”

I’ve always known that his explosive outbursts and his hard words were a coping mechanism. He was protecting himself. The best form of defense for Pax has always been attack. Which is why him being this way with me now, tender and careful, honest and open…fuck, it means something. It means everything. He's trusting me. And, for better or for worse, I trust him.

“You don’t need to do anything to be worthy of me. I’ll take you as you are, Pax Davis. I’ve always been willing to take you exactly as you are. Caustic remarks, sharpened teeth, claws and all. I know who you are. I see you. I accept you.”

The book comes to an end, as all books do. Our story is too late for Jarvis’ writing challenge, but we finish it anyway. I’m melancholy as I write the last word of the final chapter. The project symbolizes something far more significant than an end to the warfare I engaged in with Pax, or our time at Wolf Hall. After graduation, it transitioned into our story. The characters became us, and they fell for each other, even as Pax and I fell harder and harder. The book also turned into a way for the hard, aggressive boy who saved my life to break down the barriers in his own mind, as he found ways for his character to be soft and tender. To put down his armor and to speak of love. Some of the things he’s written over the past few weeks have been so poetic and beautiful that I’ve curled into a ball in my bed at night, the white glow of my laptop screen casting off the shadows, and I’ve cried, knowing that those words aren’t for my character. They are for me, like the ones he spoke in his graduation day speech.

Idk why but that literally made me shed tear. I think im still sensative about my graduation

It's still very hard for him to vocalize his emotions. Often, he shows me how he feels instead: a single, lone wildflower waiting for me on my pillow. A shared meatball sub. A hand on my leg under the table, fingers drawing small circles on my skin; threatening grimaces whenever Wren or Dash say something I might not like when I’m in their presence. That is, after all, the biggest way that he’s shown me what I mean to him—he spends as much time with me and his friends as possible. It’s as if he’s proving to me that I’m important to him. That he isn’t ashamed of me.

At first, he couldn’t even sit still on the couch next to me. He’d thump the pillow and grumble excessively about not being able to get comfortable. And that was with me sitting on the other end of the couch. After a while, he started to inch closer, though. Then, he’d touched my leg. Hold my hand. Soon enough, he’d have his arm aro...

I really need for Robert Witton not to hate me today. Warily reaching into my pocket, I take out the small black velvet box that I snuck into the dark room to retrieve, setting it down on the glass top table in front of me next to the copy of Kingston’s.

NO YOU DIDN'T . PAXTON FUCKING DAVIS!!!! You did NOT just do what i think you did

Wren stands up and holds out his hand, his face a blank mask. When I place my own hand in his, expecting him to shake it, he jerks me to my feet and into the tightest fucking hug I’ve ever experienced. “You are good, Pax Davis. The fucking best of us. No point in denying it. And I cannot wait until the day that I get to roll up and look hotter than you at your wedding.”

This afternoon, I’m going to request permission to ask Presley Maria Witton Chase a really big question. And I’m not afraid. I take out the little black velvet box again and open it, taking out the woven ring inside. It is a sorry looking thing to be sure. I made it out of gold thread. The knots are uneven and it’s lumpy as hell. It took me three attempts, watching the how-to video on YouTube, before I figured out what I was doing.

There it is. My trigger. And off comes all my emotions and love for this character. The tears are right behind them

The friendship bracelets that Chase made me were solid, beautiful things. She poured her strength and her heart into them. The ring I’ve made my firebrand is ugly in comparison, but I poured myself into it, too. It isn’t perfect. It’s flawed, and she deserves so much better, but I made it for her. And it’s strong enough that it won’t break.

This metaphor just about kills me. I love…… everything