Nothing to Everything (Roommate for Roommate Book 1)

by Maia Aaron

Fitz Higgins slides onto the piano bench, and I reluctantly slide in next to him. Our knees touch. And he pulls them away from me. And scoots to the end of the bench, as far away from me as possible. What the hell? Do I smell bad? Is that it? I subtly sniff my right armpit, but when no pungent odor reaches my nose, I rule out that possibility. If it’s not that, then what? Willis looks around for something on her desk, but when she doesn’t seem to find it, she looks up and tells us, “I’ve forgotten my planner in the other room. Give me a moment to fetch it, and then I’ll be right back.” She leaves, and then it’s just Fitz Higgins and I. The silence between us is overbearing, so I try to start conversation. “So… what year are you?” No answer. Not even any indication that he’s heard me. Okay, maybe he didn’t. Let me try again. “What year are you?” I ask again, this time a little louder. Nothing. What’s up with this guy? He’s not even looking at me. Maybe he’s deaf? Or mute. Yeah, that would make sense. Willis comes back, placing her planner on the desk. She flips through the pages before lifting her head to look at Fitz. “So, Mr. Higgins, does an hour a day, five days a week work for you?” Fitz nods. “Yes,” he says, and my eyes widen in shock. So not deaf nor mute. That means he was ignoring me. Oh, what an… “Asshole,” I mutter under my breath. His neck snaps in my direction at that. Wow, okay. So that, he heard.

I am so excited oml 💀🙏🏽

“Come on, Elle. The guy’s a total dick! You can’t expect me not to want to rip his balls off after every encounter I have with him,” I tell her, but she only sighs again. “Wendy, you know I’m totally with you on this whole thing, and I hate whoever you hate and all that, but…” “But what?” “But,” she says, leaning over to place her hands on my shoulders and looking me right in the eyes. “It’s. All. You. Talk. About. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were in love with the guy!” I recoil from her at the absurd notion. Me? Feeling anything other than complete detest towards Fitz Higgins? The idea almost makes me gag.

Elle is shaking her head now. “If you say so, babe. But if the day comes that I don’t hear Fitz Higgins’s name anymore, it’ll be a miracle.” “Talking about me, ladies?” Oh, God. Oh, God. I’d know that voice anywhere. It makes my skin crawl and my cheeks heat up. I could recognize that voice in my sleep. I slowly turn around in the wooden chair I’m sitting on, my head lifting up to meet eyes with the one and only Fitz Higgins. Goddamnit. How is this guy everywhere? If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear he was stalking me. “Following me now, are we, Fitzy?” I jab, using the nickname I gave him that I know gets under his skin. Fitz looks down at me and bares his straight white teeth in a grin, tilting his head and shoving his hands in his pants pockets. God, I hate it when he smiles at me like that. Like he’s completely unaffected by everything I say. Like no matter how annoyed I show him I am, it doesn’t phase him in the slightest. “You know you’re the center of my universe, Wendy.” He puts a hand over his chest, gasping dramatically. “I can’t exist without you. I’ll die if I’m far away from you for too long.”

Okay, more than decent-looking. But nooo, he just has to be wearing a navy-blue sweater with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showcasing his tanned forearms, over dark grey pants, a silver necklace hanging around his long neck with matching silver rings adorning his long fingers. He’s only wearing regular black sneakers, but somehow, even those he manages to make look more than just okay.

My eyes meet Elle’s brown ones, and I’m horrified to find that she’s smirking. She cocks a dark brow at me, twirling a strand of her black hair around her finger, looking at me like she thinks this is absolutely hilarious. Yeah, of course my suffering is hilarious.

Literally Ash 💀

He nods, and I could almost swear he perks up at my agreement. But that would be ridiculous. He hates me, of that I’m sure. Maybe he’s never audibly said the words, but he doesn’t have to. I can feel it. I can see it. There are moments, small and big ones, that prove it to me. Like when we’re playing the piano together during our ‘lessons’, and his hand accidentally brushes mine, and he pulls it away like he’s been scorned, like he can’t even stand to touch me. Or when he actively tries to get on my nerves, doing things that he knows irritate me, like fake-flirting with me and staring at me even though he knows I hate it. Not to mention the constant bickering with me.

“Watch out!” A voice shouts from in front of us, cutting me off, and I notice the way Fitz’s eyes widen in panic, but I barely have time to react when I see what he’s staring at and find that some guy is literally barrelling towards me on his bike. He’s practically a second away from hitting me, but just before he can, I feel hands on my waist, tugging me sharply to the side and out of the guy’s way. “Sorry!” He calls over his shoulder once he’s passed, but my breaths are coming out in too fast bursts from the momentary panic for me to say anything to him in response. I don’t have to, though, because Fitz is suddenly yelling over my head, “Watch where you’re going!” and that’s when I realize that the hands on my waist are his. Fitz Higgins has his hands on my waist. Fitz Higgins is willingly touching me. Fitz Higgins is still touching me, even though I’m perfectly safe now and there’s no reason for him to keep his hands on me.

I’ve come to learn that it doesn’t matter that it’s so unfair, because things don’t go away just because they’re unfair. My mother is the biggest example of that.

No one says anything after that. I don’t know what I could possibly say. I’m embarrassed. I’m embarrassed and hurt and upset. This is so humiliating. To have your own mother think you’re so awful that she has to recruit someone to be your partner because she doesn’t think you could do it on your own. I want to crawl into a hole and die.

Pleasing your daughter will be more than enough.

Wendy and I both nod, even though I’m feeling less than agreeable right now. But that doesn’t matter. I’m not doing this for Willis. She turns around, and then Wendy turns her head to the side to mouth thank you to me, and my heart drops down right to my stomach. Yeah. That’s the reason I’m doing this.

Only sometimes, though, because most of the time I’m convinced her and I are platonic soulmates and there’s nothing that could ever tear us apart. And I know she feels the same way about me, which is why the friendship works as well as it does. We both love each other the same, no matter what stage of life we’re at. Hell, we even had our Twilight phases together. That’s a bond that can never be broken.

It sounds like it should be so simple, but those people just wouldn’t get it. They wouldn’t know what it’s like to spend your whole life feeling like you have to give your all in anything your mother tells you to do if you ever want there to be a chance you could eventually be good enough for her. They wouldn’t know what it’s like to grow up letting your mother dictate every choice you make and every path you take and every word you say because you were terrified that if you ever did something wrong, that would diminish any possibility of her ever loving you.

That shit hit like a brick damn

So, when I say I don’t think my mother loves me and maybe never has, I’m not just saying it because I’m a moody tween who’s upset because my mom didn’t let me buy a shirt I wanted. I’m saying it because it’s probably true.

There are even moments when I wonder if the reason she took back her maiden name after my father died is because she didn’t want to share something with me. That she didn’t want everyone to know I was her daughter or that we were related. It might sound a little over the top, but it’s hard not to come to that conclusion when you grow up being treated the way I was.

You’re incredible. Don’t listen to her.” If only it were that easy.

She has no fucking clue. None. She has no idea how I feel about her, how much I care about her, how I’m willing to do anything she asks of me.

Wendy doesn’t respond. Instead, her eyes narrow into slits as she purses her lips and her nostrils flare. She looks like she wishes looks could kill. She probably does. “Why are you looking at me like that?” “I’m murdering you in my mind,” she replies, her gaze unwavering. Hah. Knew it. I cock a brow. “Oh?” “Yup.”

“I’m slamming your head onto the piano keys. Multiple times. Until that pretty boy face of yours is all smashed in.” My heart flips in my chest. Did she just call me a pretty boy? As in, she thinks my face is pretty? Does Wendy Marin think I’m pretty? “You think I’m pretty?” I ask, trying not to show how fucking elated I am that Wendy Marin just called me pretty. I know it’s a small detail, almost insignificant, but when you spend the last six months thinking the girl you’re head over heels for has never had a single positive thought about you, you start to take every little thing you can get. Her eyes narrow even more. “You won’t be once I’m finished with you.” She thinks I’m pretty.

Guess that’s what happens when you grow up not being able to stand up to your mother. You end up feeling the need to stand up to everyone else the minute they make you feel slightly threatened in order to make up for it.

I drop my eyes to the piano keys. If I want to keep my cool, then I can’t look at either of them right now. I don’t want to see the disappointment in my mother’s eyes nor the humor in Fitz’s. I’m sure he thinks this is all so fucking funny. I bet it’s fucking hilarious that not even little Wendy Marin’s mother thinks she’s good enough. “Actually, I’ve been working with Wendy for the past six months, and I happen to think that it’s a perfectly acceptable timetable.” My head snaps up at that. Is Fitz… defending me? To my mother? At first, I think I must have heard him wrong, because in what world would Fitz Higgins ever ditch the perfect, polite, and agreeable facade he puts up in front of my mother to defend me? But then, I turn to look at him, and I see that his jaw is set and his nostrils are flaring like he’s annoyed—angry, even. But no. That would make zero sense. Fitz Higgins? Angry on my behalf? That’s ridiculous.

“I…” He starts, his gaze on the piano keys. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.” I scoff, but my voice is softer when I reply. “Then what did you mean to do, Higgins?” He looks up at me again, and the look in his eyes steals the breath from my lungs. It’s… gentle. Warm. Serious. Something I never see when he looks at me. I’m not sure if I like it. “I just want to know you, Wendy,” he whispers, so softly I could have easily missed it. The words paralyze me. I can’t think. I can’t speak. I almost can’t breathe. I don’t know why, but his confession makes me feel as if I’m not in my own body. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s paired with the look he’s giving me, or maybe it’s because the words feel intimate in a way I’d never expected. Maybe it’s just because it’s Fitz saying them and looking at me like that and I don’t know of any other time where Fitz has said something like this to me and it didn’t immediately make me roll my eyes. Maybe it’s because they feel genuine.

The words claw their way out of my throat, and I don’t understand why I’m letting them. Fitz and I hate each other, and people who hate each other don’t exchange life stories together. That’s just not how it works. That’s not how Fitz and I have ever worked, and I can’t fathom why it’s how we’re working right now.

We spend the next hour working, and I try my absolute hardest to ignore the shift in the atmosphere, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t ignore the way my heart seems to beat a little faster every time Fitz’s hand accidentally brushes mine.

a dick. Great. Just great. But then, something totally unexpected happens. Wendy laughs. Like a real, genuine, eyes-closed-nose-scrunched laugh. An honest-to-God laugh. She’s never laughed for me before. In the six months we’ve known each other, she’s never laughed or smiled at me, no matter how many times I tried to get her to. But here she is, standing in the middle of my house, laughing for me. It’s fucking beautiful. I want to live off of the sound forever. “Wow,” she says after her laugh starts to subside, and I want it back the minute it’s gone. Please bring it back. Please give me another one. Please give them all to me. “Your roommate is a bit of an asshole, isn’t he?” Too stunned to speak, I nod. “Hm. No wonder you’re roommates then, huh?” Aaaaaand there it is. The comment doesn’t even bother me. I’m too high on the sound of her laugh replaying over and over in my head to let anything bring me down.

“You blocked my number,” I remind her. She doesn’t even look up at me to respond. “Yes. You were being annoying.” I scoff. “You always think I’m being annoying.” “Yeah, well,” she rolls her eyes. “I can’t block you in real life, but I can block you online, so if I want to, I will. It saves me some of the headache.” Jeez. “Unblock me.” “No.” Fucking hell. I slip onto the piano bench beside her. Her head is turned away from me, giving me perfect access to her ear, and I lean forward so that my mouth is right next to it. Not touching, but close enough that it might as well be. “Please. Unblock me. Please. Please. Please. Please.” I repeat the word in her ear over and over, and at first, Wendy doesn’t react. She keeps her head down, her eyes on the piano keys, acting like I’m not even there. Then, she turns to face me, and our faces are so close that if I leaned forward just a little, I could kiss her. God, do I want to kiss her. And when I hear her breath hitch in her throat at our closeness, I decide I want to fucking devour her. She can act like she hates me all she wants, but I know for a fact that, right now, she’s thinking the same exact thing I am. Her nostrils flare, and her eyes are on mine as she looks up at me through her eyelashes. A corner of her lips ticks up into a smirk, and her voice is low and sultry when she says, “I like it when you beg for me, Fitz.” Holy fucking shit. I’d beg for you any day of the fucking week, Wendy Marin. Clearing my thr...

I never thought I’d be happy to see Fitz Higgins in my life, but here we are.

I trust you’ll do well, Fitz,” she says, and I try really hard to ignore the pang of jealousy in my chest. Just once, just once I wish the encouragement could be directed towards me. Just once I would like to hear my mother tell me she believes in me instead of telling me I’m going to end up embarrassing her. Just once. Another nod from Fitz. “I’m sure we’ll do well, too. Thank you, Professor.” Wait… what? My mother clears her throat. “Yes. Well anyway, I’ll get going now. Best of luck to you, Mr. Higgins.” She turns her gaze on me, her eyes immediately sharpening when they land on mine. “Don’t disappoint me again, Wendy.” Again. No encouragement. Only a warning.

I hate this bitch 😒

It’s like I’m moving on auto-pilot, like I’m not in control of my own body. That must be why tears finally slip free the second I’m on stage and my eyes fall on the audience. That must be why, because I would never let this happen. I would never cry on stage. I would never cry in front of Fitz. In front of my mother. Oh, God, my mother. My mother. Why’d I have to remember her right now? I’ve remembered her and now the tears are coming even harder as I sit down on the piano bench. They keep coming down, and I can’t seem to stop them. I’m not even sure I’m trying to get them to stop. I’m not sure of anything that’s happening right now. Something is wrong. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. My hands are shaking. I know that because I’ve lifted them to rest them on the piano keys, but they’re shaking. How can I play when they’re shaking like this? The keys are a blur of black and white. I’ll mess up all the notes, just like everyone expects me to. I’ll mess it all up. I’m messing it up right now. “Wendy.” It’s Fitz’s voice. It’s right next to my ear. It’s soft and quiet. He says my name again, and I can’t tell if he’s angry with me. No, of course he’d be angry with me. I’m embarrassing him right now. We’re supposed to be playing, but we’re not. I’m not. I can’t seem to move my hands. I can’t get them to stop shaking. I can’t breathe. How long has it been since we walked out on stage? It feels like hours. Days. How long have they been waiting for us to start? How long has ...

“You didn’t embarrass anyone, Wendy. If we lose, we lose. It doesn’t matter either way, because you still played beautifully in the end,” I reassure her. Her head lifts up so she can look at me, and I see her eyes shimmer with what looks like unshed tears, and it’s like I’ve been stabbed in the chest. I don’t want her to cry. I want to take away whatever is hurting her and let it become my pain instead. I’d do anything if it meant she’d never cry of sadness or pain or anger or any negative feeling ever again. “Do you really think so?” She asks, and the vulnerability in her voice and on her face makes me want to wrap her up in my arms and whisper all the good words I can think of into her hair. I wish I could. I wish she’d let me. But that’s not what we are, so I settle on, “Of course I do. You were amazing. You’re always amazing. I don’t care what your mother says, Wendy. You’re incredible.” I step forward, until our shoes are touching, and she cranes her neck back to look up at me. “You. Are. Incredible. Please just… Please believe me.” Her throat bobs. She doesn’t respond right away, but eventually, she quietly tells me, “Thank you.” She pauses. “You were really good, too.” I smile softly at her in a silent thanks.

I can tell she’s in a rough spot right now, and I don’t know if anything I’ve said means shit to her, but I hope it does. I really hope it does. I just want to be there for her, in any way I can. In any way she’ll let me. Even if I would literally get on my knees and kiss the ground beneath her feet to show her just how incredible I think she really is, I’m pretty sure that would freak her out more than comfort her, so I guess I should probably stick to the words of encouragement for now.

All I know is that we both played like the world was ending, and that it felt like a win-worthy performance. Frankly, it wouldn’t bother me if we lost. This competition isn’t for me. This competition is for Wendy, and I’m only here to support her. The only reason I want to win is for her. I don’t want to disappoint her. I don’t want her to think this whole thing was a waste of time—that I was a waste of time. I want her to be happy. And, if I’m being one-hundred-percent honest, there’s a small part of me that wants to win simply so Wendy can tell Willis to go suck it. I want her to get the satisfaction of proving her mother wrong. Maybe it’s childish, but I don’t really care. Wendy deserves a lot fucking better than for her mother to talk down to her and berate her when she’s nothing but perfect.

My focus is completely on the lady in front of us, but it’s torn away the second I feel a hand brushing mine. My eyes fall to where my hand is hanging limply at my side, and I try not to let my eyes widen too much when I see that it’s Wendy’s hand. Her pinky is grazing mine, moving back and forth against my skin, but that’s not what startles me. What startles me is that she’s looking up at me now, her eyes locked on mine, but not even that distracts me from the way the rest of her fingers join her pinky until our hands are pressed together, like she wants to… Like she wants to hold mine. Her fingers brush my palm, and it triggers a collection of goosebumps up my arm and a flurry of butterflies in my stomach. Does she… Does she want to hold my hand? No, that doesn’t sound right. I mean, I know I kind of held her hand earlier when she froze up on stage, but that was because I’d initiated it and she seemed too preoccupied with other worries to think about the fact that I was touching her. I can’t imagine she’d actually be seeking my touch right now. That would make no sense. It wouldn’t. But then… why is her palm pressing to mine, and why is she looking at me like she’s asking for my permission? Like she’s unsure whether or not I’d be okay with it. Fuck it. This might end up being the most embarrassing moment of my life, but I don’t care. I intertwine my fingers with hers, and I hold my breath as I wait for her to curl her fingers around mine. One. Two. Three. She d...

Don’t even get me started on the petname he used. Breathe, love.

“Perfect. Then that means we’re alone,” she says, and every part of my body locks up. She wanted to see me, then. Familiar dread brews in my stomach. I know this won’t end well, because it never does. Suddenly, a thought materializes in my mind. I wish Fitz were here. “We made it to nationals,” I tell her, my eyes on the floor, although there’s no doubt she already knows. I’m sure she was right there, behind the curtain, watching and hearing everything that went on, perusing me and seeing how I’d do. Which means she saw me freezing up. “I’m aware,” she states bluntly. “Second place.” The words are laced with venom, and I don’t need much more in order to know that, despite us making it to nationals, she’s still unhappy. I don’t say anything in response, waiting for her to say the words I’ve grown accustomed to hearing. Do better. That’s not good enough. You have to work harder next time. There’s no use in hoping for anything different. I’ve learned that the hard way. “You’re an embarrassment to me, Wendy.”

Fucking hate this whore

You’d think after twenty years of this shit, I’d be used to it by now, but I’m not. I don’t think anyone ever gets used to being unloved by their mother.

His voice is soft, quiet, and the hint of concern does nothing to calm me down. If anything, it only makes it even harder to breathe.

Not at all. Not one bit. Has it ever been okay? I can’t remember a time when anything was okay. But somehow, this thought, this truth only hits me every now and then, and when it does, it hits me like a truck. Just like it is right now.

That it was wrong to trust someone with your weaknesses because eventually they’d use them against you.

that. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know why hearing Fitz speak to me so softly, with so much care and warmth in his voice, makes me as sad as it does. Maybe it’s because I can’t remember a time when anyone’s spoken to me that way. Maybe it’s because I don’t know anyone besides Elle who’s ever shown genuine concern for me. Maybe it’s because when he tells me he’s here for me, I actually believe him. And that terrifies me. I sniffle, and all of a sudden I can feel his body heat against my back as he drops my wrist. I feel hands come up to land on my shoulders, and at first, the touch is reluctant, unsure. So featherlight it may as well not be there. But then I feel the sharp exhale of breath on the back of my head, and the hands are firmer on my shoulders, more assured. They rub once, twice before slowly dragging down the length of my arms, gentle and comforting, and it’s so hard to breathe. They go up and down, up and down, and a new tear escapes with each brush of his fingers along my skin, and even though every part of me is screaming for me to move, to leave, to make my way to the door before Fitz can actually see me crying, for some reason, I’m frozen still. Like my brain is telling my feet to move but my feet, and the rest of my body, are too happy where they are to obey. Like his touch has paralyzed me. But even though my body is still, my mind is running a hundred miles a minute. I’m thinking of my mother and I’m thinking of how awful everything fee...

“You’re okay, love,” he says, rubbing his thumbs over my cheeks in soothing circles, his warm gaze clashing with mine, and the sight of him like this, the way he’s treating me like something fragile that he doesn’t want to break, makes it so hard to keep my eyes open. I shut them, allowing all the teardrops that were brimming to fall freely, and my head feels heavy now, so heavy that it makes it hard to keep standing. I must stumble or something because suddenly Fitz is pulling me to him, his arms wrapping around my waist and his hand coming to bring my head to his chest. He’s holding me. “What’s wrong?” He asks into my hair, and I want to say everything. I want to tell him that everything’s wrong and that nothing feels good and that my body and heart and mind all hurt and it feels like there’s nothing that can make it go away. I want to tell him about my mother and about how I keep thinking I’m never going to be good enough and that sometimes it feels like no one in this world truly loves me. I want to tell him that I feel alone; so, so alone, and some days I wonder if anyone would even care if I was gone. I want to tell him every bad thought that plagues my head, but I can’t seem to get the words out. So instead, I just cry. I cry into his chest, my tears staining his shirt as he hugs me tighter, and I don’t even notice that he’s sat us both down on the floor until I feel him move my legs so that I’m straddling him and sitting on his lap. The position should make me ...

“You don’t need to thank me, baby.” He pauses, and the petname does something weird to my insides.

FUCK THAT IS ALL I WANT PLEASEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

“No, actually. Believe it or not, I have no other personality traits besides knowing how to play the piano.” I stare at him blankly, unimpressed by his sarcasm. “And being a dick, apparently.” He chuckles, and for some strange reason that I really don’t want to get into, when I feel the vibration of it against my chest, something stirs in my belly. Okay, now I definitely need to get off of him. Trying my hardest not to make it awkward, I slip off of his lap and onto the floor, next to where he’s sitting. His eyes follow my movements, but I ignore the heat of his gaze and sit with my legs crossed a fair distance away from him. For a split second, I could swear that I see a flash of hurt in his eyes, but it’s gone before I can decipher it. He clears his throat. “I like to crochet.” My eyebrows shoot up to my forehead. Fitz Higgins likes to crochet? I don’t know why that comes as a shock to me, but it does. I mean, I know he plays the piano and is super organized and well-dressed and all, so it shouldn’t be as surprising as it is, but still–I never would’ve guessed that crocheting is how he chooses to spend his free time. Why do I find that… attractive?

Me 💀💀💀💀

Who is this man? The Fitz Higgins I had conjured up in my head for the past seven months would have never crocheted blankets for his mom and hats for his nephews. The Fitz Higgins I thought I knew was arrogant, insistent, and a pain in the ass. Why did I never assume there could’ve been more to him than that? My throat is dry when I speak again. “That’s really sweet. I had no idea you were into crocheting.” Fitz stares at me now, his gaze heavy and serious. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Wendy.”

“Well…” I say, breaking the awkward silence. “Does that mean you can crochet me a cardigan?” I smile, trying to ease the sudden tension in the air, and Fitz smiles back, making my breath catch. Has he always looked at me this way? “For you, Wendy? Anything.”

PLEASEEEEEEEEEEEEEE IM BEGGING 🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐

“I love to read,” I start. “All sorts of genres, except for non-fiction. Non-fiction is gross. I’m reading with a goal in mind, and that goal is definitely not to learn.”

“I guess I like books that are easy to escape into. Something that helps me get out of my head for a few hours.”

Me and Wendy are one in the same

But he does none of those things. Instead, he watches me intently, his brows furrowed like he’s genuinely interested in what I have to say, and he asks, “What’s your favorite romance book?” I can’t help the smile that breaks out across my face. “You sure you want to know?” He nods. “Okay, then.” I start to tell him all about it, giving him the general synopsis of the story and some background information on the characters before I pause for a moment, taking in Fitz’s face, and something in my heart twists when I see him watching me so intently and hanging onto every word I say like it’s the most important thing he’ll ever hear. He doesn’t tell me it’s stupid or boring or that he doesn’t care—he just sits and listens, giving me his undivided attention, and it hits me that I don’t think I’ve ever had someone listen to me the way Fitz does. “Well, what happens next?” Fitz asks, and I tell him. I tell him the whole story, and he listens and reacts and responds, and then we keep playing, asking each other stupid questions and talking about the most meaningless things and laughing at the dumbest stuff. He tells me about how he’s never broken a bone before and how he loves old video games and that he’s been collecting all the old consoles and games he’s been able to get his hands on ever since he was twelve, and I tell him how I want to be a teacher because I love kids and the story of how I accidentally snorted chocolate milk out of my nose one time in front of my whole sec...

🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐 i will literally get on my knees and pray for this pleaseeeeeeeee

Gross, my ass. There’s nothing gross to me about the idea of… being with Fitz like that. But Elle doesn’t need to know that.

“Wends, I love you, but you’re an idiot if you still think he hates you after that.”