Page 31 of Playing With Fire

Because somewhere between hockey games, family dinners, and stupid nicknames, I started wanting the way Bishop loved me to mean something different.

Something it never has.

Something it never will.

Something that only existed in the pink-notebook version of my life, where I could rewrite the ending however I wanted.

So I grew up. And tried to move on. I was supposed to finally start a life that had nothing to do with the boy I’d spent half of my life looking at when I thought no one was looking.

Instead, I’ve moved to his city. And by some cruel twist of fate, I’m sleeping across the hall from his empty room.

I stare at the ceiling.

Really should’ve applied to New York.

By Sunday afternoon, I’ve looked at twenty-three apartments online, toured two in person, and developed a genuine concern that Chicago landlords are collectively insane.

One listing described the kitchen as cozy. You could open the refrigerator from bed. I mean, it’s not the worst thing. But the shower looked like it was one toilet flush away from needing a hazmat team instead of a plumber.

Another advertised abundant natural light. There was one window, and it faced a brick wall.

I sit cross-legged on Bishop’s sectional with my laptop balanced on my knees. The faint smell of the deli sandwich I ordered for dinner lingers in the kitchen, mixing with the coffee I made hours ago and forgot to finish.

Darcy is stretched across the back cushions in the last patch of sunlight like he’s been living here his entire life.

My pink composition notebook sits on the coffee table.

Closed.

It’s been there most of the afternoon, and every time I look at it, guilt prickles beneath my skin. I should write. I want to write. Technically, I have time.

But every thought in my head is currently occupied by rent prices, security deposits, my new job tomorrow, and whether I’m going to spend the next year living somewhere with a bathtub in the kitchen.

I pick up my pen. Tap it twice against the cover. Nothing. Not even a bad sentence.

“Come on.”

Darcy opens one gray eye.