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To the person I was and the one I became. It’s never too late if you want it enough.
These men are the Khakis—white hetero men of mediocre competence and undeserved confidence who wouldn’t know their way to a clitoris if someone strung them over a swamp rife with testicle-eating crocodiles.
“I mean, I know I’ve just met you, but I’ve never seen someone make such intense fuck me eyes from clear across the room. But okay, you are enemies.”
Rafe and Andy stare at each other like this is West Side Story, and they’re about to break out into a knife fight. Or a song. But probably a knife fight.
“I want someone who makes me feel a little like I’m… burning in the best kind of way.”
What I meant was it’s hard to believe you’re an introvert because you shine in every room you enter.”
“There’s nothing unmissable about you. That’s all I meant. That there isn’t anywhere you could go where everyone wouldn’t notice you.”
My obsession that’s not an obsession has never been more obsessive.
“Rafe, why did you draw me?” I whisper. The silence drags on so long that I don’t think he’ll answer, but then he says, “Because I draw things that are beautiful to me.”
“I’d rather it was balled up on the floor with my face between your thighs.”
“Who were you planning to have sex with?” he asks, ripping open the box. “I don’t know, but it sure as hell wasn’t you,” I deadpan. “Then, call me the luckiest bastard in the universe.”
“Naked. Now,” he says, pulling at my leggings and shirt. “You’re so verbose as a villain,”
