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Ever feel like the universe is some greasy forty-year-old online troll living in his mother’s basement with his Cheeto-dusted fingers hovering the keyboard, just waiting for the perfect time to fuck with you? Yeah, me too.
“Sleep tight, shortcake.” I can actually hear his grin. Bastard.
“Big mistake. Big. Huge,”
She states her genetic knowledge with such conviction that I’m pretty sure her family reunion looks eerily similar to the banjo scene from Deliverance.
“‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn. With much love, Rose.’”
Cock block, you say? Don’t mind if I do.
“I don’t care if it’s not technically mine.” He looks back to me, his voice soft and tender. “I’m gonna love it like my own.”
“Most men would feel insecure about having to use a donor.” I lean in, cupping my hand to the side of my mouth and continue in a mock-whisper, “Low sperm count.” I turn and beam back at Ben, giving him a conspiratorial smirk. “But not my guy here. He’s a champ.”
It’s official. He’s ruined Home Depot for me. Bastard.
“You didn’t let me finish, honey bear…” His words are saccharine sweet. Dear lord, what have I done. “What I feel for you goes beyond love,” he professes, his deep voice raised enough so our audience can hear his proclamation. “I’m downright sick with it, sweetheart.”
I’m pretty sure in an alternative universe, he’s inmate number 81433 sitting on death-row for my murder.
The soul can’t breathe without hope. Torture is to keep living after your soul has died.
I swear to god if Ben is singing while making tacos with my panties tucked into his pocket, I’m done.
“Go back to sleep.”
“But I want to see her eat tacos,”
I have a crush on Benjamin Crawford. Benjamin. Fucking. Crawford.
and gently brushes and bumps his nose against mine. Wait. What?
Ben just Eskimo kissed me. And then he called me cute. Cute.
“I mean, I’ve read books, but I’ve never ended up in a committed relationship with one of them.”
“You’re lucky. It’s too late for me.”
(1) I’m not going to sleep a wink. (2) Benjamin Crawford is going to kill me, probably while whistling.
I place “coffee causing shingles” third on the list of crazy shit Mrs. Baker has said.
“You kiss me.” His other hand cups the side of my neck, his callused thumb dragging along the curve of my throat. His voice drops an octave. “I kiss you.”
“We’re all dealing with shit, some more, some less, but we all got something.”
I’m so fucked. So, very, very fucked. I’m pretty sure only one of us is getting off of this island. Spoiler Alert: it’s not me.
“You could wear a potato sack, and you’d still look fucking gorgeous. Don’t worry.”
Benjamin Crawford reaches his rough and manly hand up to my head and… ruffles my hair. Like he just bought me a Happy Meal. Ruffles. My. Fucking. Hair. I’m dead. Here lies Emelia Anderson. Friend to one. Mother to none. Died from an unfortunate hair ruffle. While wearing a puffer vest.
The thing about anxiety is it doesn’t care that you haven’t had a night out in forever. It doesn’t care that you need to dance away all the bullshit weighing you down. It doesn’t care that you finally feel like you have it. Anxiety is a sneaky son of a bitch.
Of course, before reaching him, I would trip a little, showing him that even though I’m a sexy beast, I’m still quirky and relatable.
“You need to lose this rock, girl. Wouldn’t want anyone thinking you’re taken.” She turns to Ben. “I’m sure you wouldn’t mind holding it for her, right?”
“Good,” I call out after him. “Great,”
He left his party to come get you… He would’ve done that for anyone. He carried you out of a freaking police station…
Already told you who I wanted to be with tonight.” His deep voice quiets. “You’re the one who went out to hook up, not me.”
Whoever said it was better to have loved and lost was a lying sack of shit.
“Because I’m ready to fucking kill whoever put those marks on your body. Fucking end whoever touched you like that.”
“My heart fucking stopped when you called tonight. Fucking stopped.” He takes an angry step toward me. “So why don’t you tell me how I fucking feel. Tell me what this shit means.”
“It,” I repeat like an idiot. “Got a lot of things I’m gonna do to you, Shortcake.” He circles my nipple with the tip of his tongue. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
He’s messing with me. And I love it. I love us like this.
You’re in love with him, Emelia… It may not be love. It’s love… It could be lust. It’s love…
I’m head over heels in love with Benjamin Crawford: stealer of parachute panties, bringer of orgasms, giver of gentle goodnight kisses.
“Let’s just say, I’ve planned hundreds of weddings, and I’ve never seen a groom look at his bride-to-be the way Ben looks at you.”
“My dad’s in prison for manslaughter,”
Then I have a plane to catch.” Do I really have a plane to catch? No. Do I say stupid shit? Yes.
“Jesus Christ, you’re beautiful,” he whispers to himself and runs a hand through his hair. His words suck the oxygen from my lungs.
“Why? Tell me so I can fix it.” Because I love you. Because you fake-promising to love me forever will end me. END ME.
“Right now, you have two choices.” He steps closer. “You can either walk down the aisle or I can carry you, but either way we’re getting fucking married.”
“You can’t carry me down the aisle.” “Wanna bet?”
“Not taking any chances.”
“Yeah? You want to know why I was going to leave, Ben?” His shoulders stiffen. “Because I’m in love with you and I want to have your broody-babies and make you pot roast. That’s why! What do you think about that?”
