?
Romantic drivel really isn’t my forte.
Azalea
Junction:tmrw nite go dntwn. aft sunset get him @ 4th & grffn st
Exhausted, I melt into my bed and glare at the message. It came sometime while Malcolm and I were hunched over ceramic birds, painting them black and white for each other in a starklycutie pie romanticsort of way. I’d gag about it now, if I had the energy.
But I do not.
I do not.
And the last thing in the world I want to do is ask him out onanotherdatetomorrow. If I keep this up, he’s really going to think I’ve come to like him or something stupid like that.
Which is…exactly what I need to have happen. Because if I can gethimto believe it’s possible, maybe the cops will, too.
Heaving a sigh, I get my regular phone and slump back into my downy bedding.
I need a reason to keep him out after sunset downtown. Are the shops even open that late? Are we going to need to walk up and down the streets, like fools in love, and talk about everything in the world?
Genuinely, I’m not sure I’m cut out for that.
It’d be easier if I ate out. Then at least we could burn an hour or more at a restaurant for dinner…but…
Yeah.
I don’t do that.
I refuse to do that.
I might actually be a terrible girlfriend and an even worse accomplice.
Me:Hello.
I crumple a bit further into the plush of my blankets. “Really?” I mutter. “That’s the best you could come up with?” I’m terrible at communication, too. And I think that’s most apparent when I want or need to communicate but just…can’t figure out the right words to say. I don’t know how to carry a conversation. I don’t know how to interact properly with people at all.
Defeated and tired, I wonder if my social shortcomings will help or hurt me in all of this madness. On the one hand, maybe the authorities will realize I’m not responding normally to my “boyfriend’s” death because I’m socially incapable of responding normally to anything. On the other, maybe I’ll seem guilty no matter what I do. Maybe I should take my savings, cut my losses, and leave this city while I might still have the chance.
What good is justice in the end, anyway?
It just wears you out, doesn’t it?
But, then again, all my rules and beliefs always have.
That doesn’t mean my brain has ever stopped punishing me for trying to ignore them.
Crow:Evening, little dove. Miss me already?
Ew.
A prickle of exhausting distaste for Malcolm Swallow simmers to life in my stomach.
Crow:I can be over in minutes. Just say the word.
Double ew. I don’t want him anywhere near my home. Ever.
Sunset tomorrow is seven forty-five. It’ll need to be at least around eight, probably, for the cover of darkness to cloak whatever Junction has planned. How do I make this happen? What can I say to make this happen?
