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“At the moment,” Farrow says matter-of-factly, “I’m watching my boyfriend deflect by asking me how I’m doing.” I nod, arms crossed. “He sounds like a real keeper.”
His satisfied smile stretches from cheek-to-cheek. Somewhere in some alternate universe, I’m a philosopher writing dissertations on that fucking smile. And its sheer effect on me.
You know Beckett Joyce Cobalt as a principal dancer of an elite ballet company in New York City. His tattoos and extracurricular activities cause a stir for tabloids. But they also fill seats for shows. You call him the bad boy of ballet and he doesn’t bother proving you wrong.
Charlie’s fraternal twin, maybe we’d find common ground. But if there really are sides in my family, Beckett will never be on mine. Fair Warning: if you fuck with Beckett, I won’t hesitate to team up with Charlie and rip you limb-from-limb.
“Mom was crying,” Beckett tells his sister, “and you know, Mom. She says she only sheds tears for the ones she loves. She really felt like shit for not believing you.” “Good,” Jane snaps. Beckett continues, “She also told Dad they needed to cut out their hearts for the betrayal and gift each to you in a glass jar.” Jane tries not to smile. “Encore mieux.” Even better.
“The thing about addiction is that it changes you,” he tells me. “You don’t care about the people you love. All compassion and kindness dissolve in the face of your own wants and needs.”
I want to be smothered by my boyfriend.
“See, every time you try to fix unfixable things, just imagine me pounding you so hard you cry when you come.”
Dear World, did he just bring me a “break up” breakfast? Is that even a thing? Worst regards, a broken-hearted human.
I make a face. “How do I like you, man?” “I think you mean love,” he teases.
Don’t think about jumping his bones. Don’t think about his dick rubbing against your dick. Don’t think about his arms wrapped around you or his hand sliding down your chest and up to your throat.
I blink. “You ever hear of that annoying six-foot-three guy with bleach-white hair who died in a Chicago stairwell?” He laughs. “You mean the guy you have a hard-on for.”
I never even dreamed about falling in love until I fell in love with him.
Oscar ties a bandana around his forehead. “Goodbye to Donnelly’s drunken SnapChat dick pics.” Donnelly leans against the headboard. “Those were sober, man.”
Hello Mr. Moretti, I’m in need of some oral assistance. Would you be so kind to spread my knees?”
“Tell me something that isn’t new,” I say. “I love you,” he says deeply. “And when you hurt, I hurt.”
“That shit won’t bother me,” I say, “and if it does, the tradeoff is worth it.” Maximoff knows the tradeoff is him. “I’m not worth it.”
I wake up every morning, and I’m more in love with him than the day before.
“I have a PhD in Maximoff Hale Studies.”
I want your cock inside of me. I sent my childhood crush that text tonight. In this reality, not a dream or some alternate universe or as a fucking joke. Legit, I told him to fuck me.
“Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.”
We’re in our own world. Our own universe. No one can have it. No one can break it. This moment belongs to us.
