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Tom Welling
I'm loving all the Tom Welling shout outs so far.
Mile 0.5: Blasting “Toxic” through the daisy speaker: “Sing with me! ‘I’m slippin’ under—’” Sasha, muttering: “This is what Judas hears in hell.”
Mile 0.7: Applying lip gloss mid-stride: “Do you prefer ‘Mojito Meltdown’ or ‘Cosmopolitan Crush’?” Sasha, glancing at the sheer cliff drop beside us: “At this point, the sweet embrace of death.”
My speaker dies mid-Single Ladies. Sasha’s shirt snags on a thorn and starts tearing at the hem, much like my sanity.
“You want to breathe,” he says. “I get that. But the answer is this: Trust me. Let me strangle everything that suffocates you. Let me be the knife in your shadow. The wolf at your door.” His forehead presses to mine. “I don’t ask you to love this life, Ariel. Only to let me love you through it.”
Cockroaches are cursed out by Gina and then hit with lethal doses of what she calls her homemade Get The Fuck Away From Me spray. It’s shockingly effective.
Lol
Hate is just love that’s still breathing.”
