My brain sorts through a plethora of things I’ve done in the past few days that I shouldn’t have because I knew better. Converse with Tate on the plane. Staging a run-in with him at Ruma. Going to his room and letting him bend me into a pretzel. I snuck out, ignored my boss’s calls, and ate half of a pie in my hotel room with a plastic spoon. Even though it was the best damn pie I’ve ever tasted, it still made me nauseous the whole flight home. And then I agreed to work under the guy I just laid under like I have some magical ability to separate the two. The list goes on and on.
