Page 22 of Lovefool

“The biggest. And milkshakes are my weakness.” She dives in for another taste of my sugary confection with the sleight of a pickpocket’s hand, but instead of slaking her own appetite, she holds the cream in front of my face, silently begging me to lick what’s mine.

I don’t stop myself from leaning forward to envelop her finger with my mouth, and the noticeable shiver that slinks through her body is enough to make the crotch of my pants tighten.

Fuck. She’s literally got me eating out of the palm of her hand.

The airy, chilled concoction inundates my taste buds, and I reestablish some semblance of self-control before someone sees something they’re not supposed to. I pull back, unsuctioning my lips from her digit.

A quicksilver smile appears on her face, the tension between us still heavily nourished by a shared, bare-bones desire to prolong its lifespan.

“There he is,” she drawls, her eyelids heavy with arousal, spurring my imagination to take me somewhere dark and delirious, snapshots of naked skin and whipped cream used for its unintended purpose shuttering through my head at an immeasurable speed.

If I’d known that I could get my mojo back with a little tasteful tongue-fucking, I would have done it a long time ago.

I adjust the bottom half of myself discreetly under the table, needing my budding erection to deflate before I’m not able to stand up. Right now, I could probably poke someone’s eye out with this thing.

Thankfully, she changes the subject on her own.

“What do your tattoos mean?” she asks.

I nearly choke on the saliva in my mouth. “My tattoos?”

“You have a few of them, don’t you?”

Nobody has ever cared enough to ask about my tattoos before.

“Yeah, um…” I pull up my left sleeve to reveal a python spiraling around my upper arm. “The ouroboros represents death and rebirth. I wanted it to serve as a constant reminder that not every tangible thing is immortal in life, but memories always are.”

Lake nods, urging me to continue.

“The one on my back is more for aesthetic purposes, and the writing on my thigh is a Latin quote that just stuck with me: memento vivere, remember to live.”

I don’t go into traumatic detail about how difficult it is to abide by that quote every day. It’s not surprising I have two tattoos dedicated to the prospect of life, considering the impact my dad’s work has had on me.

I tear off a chunk of my pizza crust before popping it into my mouth, shifting the topic once again before she lingers on any hidden, deeper meanings. “You said your brother plays hockey? Is he serious about it?”

Lake shrugs, following my initiative and resuming her meal dissection. “He’s only ten. I’m not sure if he wants to continue playing throughout high school.”

“There’s no rush. He has all the time in the world to figure it out.”

“I hope he sticks with it. Hockey gives his life structure right now. My mom is constantly busy with work, so I look after him the majority of the time.”

“I’m so sorry, Lake. That’s a lot of responsibility for someone who’s in college.”

“Oh, I don’t mind. I mean, sometimes I do, but I’m always going to be there if he needs my help. Are you close with your parents?” she asks, genuine curiosity hanging in the air like an unspoken promise. Her voice is velvety, which makes up for the serrated edge of her question.

I freeze. My stomach cramps. Panic twists up behind my ribs to stunt my breathing. I don’t know how much I should tell her without playing the pity card.

I attempt to act relatively unfazed, but theater has never been my strong suit. “Uh, it’s just me and my dad. We’re pretty close, but he’s a frontline worker, so I don’t see him all that much.”

“Wow, that’s incredible, Sutton.”

“He’s sacrificed a lot for me to be where I am now.”

Lake’s carefree expression takes a turn for the worse, developing into a frown that doesn’t belong on the beautiful canvas of her face. Despite my best efforts, sympathy by proxy needle-stabs my heart.

“I can’t imagine how difficult that must be,” she adds quietly—almost as if she doesn’t want to offend me with the loud, unvarnished truth.

It’s so fucking difficult. Somedays, functioning seems impossible. Death is always a footstep away, lurking outside the perimeter, waiting for its next victim. It doesn’t go into hibernation. It’s not dissuaded by the palisades designed to keep pests out. It slips through weather-beaten structural cracks until it has access to the human-shaped pit of despair skulking inside.