Holy smokes, it's freezing outside.
It isn't actually, it's sunny and almost ten degrees. But it's cold if you're on the back of Andrew's motorcycle for a good forty minutes. My thighs hurt. It's very difficult to unclench my fingers from the shape they're in from the deathgrip I had around Andrew's chest. He's not nearly as big as Ben is and every corner felt like a bitter end. I thought I would die and would have rethought the whole trip had he not taken me to the coolest little place for lunch.
It only took me all of three minutes to figure out that he was Ben's snitch, buttering me up only to find out if I have any doubts at all now, over events of late and conversations conducted with fragile hearts packed tight and clinking in the back of a truck on a long and bumpy road. I told him what he could take back to Ben, and that everything is better, that somehow Ben found one sentence to say to me that managed to express both how he felt and eradicate any doubts I might ever have about his motives or his mortality or his loyalty to me, if I had any doubts left at all.
I'm not going to share what Ben said because for once I'm not going to jinx it by telling everyone who isn't awfully close. But I made PJ cry when I told him. And I will tell you, dear Internet. But not just yet.
