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She doesn’t know that I’m a wolf and Parks is the moon whose name I’ve howled since I was fifteen.
Jordan doesn’t know how me and Parks are.
Were.
I mean were.
She smiles more, relaxes, takes my hand in hers. Kisses it. I press her up against my car. Kiss her. It’s conscious but I don’t think of Parks when I kiss her, if you can believe it.
Don’t think of Parks when I sleep with Jordan either. Try not to, anyway. Harder to do sometimes than others — like now — when we’ve been talking about her.
Let me be clear: Jordan’s so hot.
Probably easier that she’s nothing like Parks too, even in the dark. Their bodies feel so different. Jordan’s athletic, boobs and butt and curves. And she’s cool and approachable and easy-going. She’s fun. Level-headed. Drinks beer. Wears denim. Puts her hair in one of those girl buns on top of her head.
She’s no fuss.
She trusts me.
Guess I haven’t given her a reason not to trust me though.
I’m kind of nervous about seeing Parks if I’m honest.
Nervous she’s going to fuck me up a bit. Don’t tell me she won’t, she always does — even if it’s in ways I like.
It’s just easier dating someone who doesn’t rip your heart out of your chest all the fucking time. And Parks always will. She can’t help it. One look at her stupid eyes and I’m undone. Or I used to be — I shake my head at myself, staring at my girlfriend.
Not any more.
For fuck’s sake. Please, not any more.
