My soft spot is so squishy that if you touch it you'll poke a hole right through me, leaving a mark that won't heal. I'm swiss-cheese girl. The waffle. The sweetheart. The Fragile Little Miss Bee.
I'm also exhausted and was exempted from church by Jesus himself in the form of Sam, with his now-empty coffee cup, badly-knotted tie and barely combed curls who caught of glimpse of me this morning and swore, telling me to go back to bed.
That's the least restful place in this house, I told him and he frowned. He didn't even have to ask because he knows me well enough by now.
I'll do my penance another day.
Can't stay away from the Devil.
(Fuck Lent. Fuck everything.)
(Or maybe it's too late to say that.)
Caleb's issue is craving me. Mine is craving him right back.
The table reduced to three late last night, long after the words from their speeches had grown cold. Lochlan was scowling, one arm slung over the back of my chair, four whiskeys deep and up to his knees in no good. Caleb was already pie-lit by then too, I couldn't even keep track of his drinks.
Fucking yarling. She's beautiful but she's not all yours.
Happy Birthday, you bastard. Don't let your jealousy age you prematurely.
When their eyes shine and their hands are steady they connect again, best friends who remember how they started before I ruined everything. I just want to make up for that and so I brought Caleb upstairs with us and I didn't ask permission and I didn't offer apologies and Lochlan didn't need to stand before a promise he didn't even need to make in the first place.
He didn't. I should have, but I didn't either.
I was held against the door while Loch stared into the fire, hating me, hating Caleb, hating himself most of all. I pleaded with him not to (one not to put me up against the door, one not to hate everything) and they listened. Old habits die hard. Hard dyes old habits dark, staining them with the inky night and it took until the sun came up over the ocean to tame them both, to bring Lochlan back around to loving everyone, to make Caleb see that this is what he will forever have to beg me for.
Lá breithe sásta, Diabhal.
Oh, but I didn't beg, Neamhchiontach. You offered.
I'm also exhausted and was exempted from church by Jesus himself in the form of Sam, with his now-empty coffee cup, badly-knotted tie and barely combed curls who caught of glimpse of me this morning and swore, telling me to go back to bed.
That's the least restful place in this house, I told him and he frowned. He didn't even have to ask because he knows me well enough by now.
I'll do my penance another day.
Can't stay away from the Devil.
(Fuck Lent. Fuck everything.)
(Or maybe it's too late to say that.)
Caleb's issue is craving me. Mine is craving him right back.
The table reduced to three late last night, long after the words from their speeches had grown cold. Lochlan was scowling, one arm slung over the back of my chair, four whiskeys deep and up to his knees in no good. Caleb was already pie-lit by then too, I couldn't even keep track of his drinks.
Fucking yarling. She's beautiful but she's not all yours.
Happy Birthday, you bastard. Don't let your jealousy age you prematurely.
When their eyes shine and their hands are steady they connect again, best friends who remember how they started before I ruined everything. I just want to make up for that and so I brought Caleb upstairs with us and I didn't ask permission and I didn't offer apologies and Lochlan didn't need to stand before a promise he didn't even need to make in the first place.
He didn't. I should have, but I didn't either.
I was held against the door while Loch stared into the fire, hating me, hating Caleb, hating himself most of all. I pleaded with him not to (one not to put me up against the door, one not to hate everything) and they listened. Old habits die hard. Hard dyes old habits dark, staining them with the inky night and it took until the sun came up over the ocean to tame them both, to bring Lochlan back around to loving everyone, to make Caleb see that this is what he will forever have to beg me for.
Lá breithe sásta, Diabhal.
Oh, but I didn't beg, Neamhchiontach. You offered.