Shame. Doesn’t smell like you anymore.
Attached is a picture of her, neck down, in my t-shirt. Her one hand is gently pulling up the fabric, showing me a sliver of bright pink underwear. I bite out a curse, dropping the phone and leaning against the counter by my hands.
She’s trying to kill me. Or provoke me. I’m not sure which is worse.
Me
You know that you shouldn’t be sending me stuff like this anymore.
Ariana
Would you prefer this?
My shirt is now pulled over her chest, being pushed up by a lacy, see-through pink bra. It matches the underwear. I wonderif she bought that set with me in mind, specifically to send these pictures right to my hands.
Me
I’m trying to be good here, sweetheart.
Ariana
Fine, let me come over instead. We can try to be good together.
I drop my head, swearing at myself. What did I start? Why can’t I stop it? Why am I even hesitating before I shoot her down? What if Fork stops by, or Lemmy, or even Lowesy?
I slide the chicken into the oven and finally find the gall to answer.
Me
That’s not a good idea.
She types and deletes, over and over, until she finally responds.
Ariana
Those kinds of ideas are my favourite ideas. Suit yourself, though. I’ll find someone to enjoy this outfit.
I clench my phone in my hand so tightly that I swear it might turn to dust. I lock it, tossing it down the counter. Now I’m picturing that idiot from the restaurant, that idiot Jared, or any of those idiots she surrounds herself with getting to see her inthat.Getting to touch her inthat,like they deserve even a hint of it. Like she bought it for them.
I finish making and eating my dinner, stabbing my fork into my vegetables with vigor. I almost crack the plate in two atone point. I eat it in utter silence, nothing but the roaring in my head to entertain me. I do all the dishes by hand to resist touching that phone. I dry them and put them away, too. Hours have passed by the time I’m finally on the couch with a glass of whiskey, glaring at the TV screen. It’s then that I admit defeat.
I grab my phone and send her the pin to get to my house.
Me
That better still be on your body when you get here.
Ariana
It better not stay on my body once I do.
She arrives in the car she’s leasing, dressed in leggings and an oversized Pittsburgh sweater. I yank open the front door as she climbs up the porch, eyes burning into mine. She launchesherself at me. No discussion. No hello. Just her legs around my waist and her mouth against mine.
I haul her into the house, slamming the door behind us, and book it for the stairs. We are glued to each other the whole way there, not bothering to come up for air. Once she’s on the bed, I slowly peel that sweater up her body, seeing the edges of the pink lingerie that landed us right back here, exactly where we shouldn’t be. I curse, bending down to kiss just under her ribs, tearing that sweater off her frame. I tear her pants off, too, wanting to see the whole picture that she painted for me in those photos.
My eyes snap up to hers. She smiles wickedly, knowing she looks fucking incredible, that sheisincredible, and not caring about what that does to me.
“I want you to know that I never agreed to these coming off,” I say, my voice gravelly. “They’re staying on.”
