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God how I wish that were true. I wish I hated her even a fraction of what I pretend to. Usually it’s easy to make myself believe it. But right now, as she stares up at me with those bright blue eyes, stark against her dark hair, I forget all the reasons why I’m supposed to hate her. Why I’ve convinced myself that I have to.
“Come on.” She steps back, clearing her throat. “Let’s get this cleaned up.” She gestures around the room.
“You don’t have to help me.”
“Actually.” She snags the bottle of whiskey still clutched in my hand. “I do.” She lifts the bottle to her lips and to my surprise, takes a long swig, grimacing as she swallows.
“Who are you and what have you done with my arch nemesis?” I crack a smile, the weight I felt earlier lifting. Like she walked in and took some of it onto herself.
“Don’t worry. She’ll be back tomorrow. For now, she wants to be a friend, something you clearly need right now.”
“I don’t need shit.” I arch a brow when she takes another full drink of whiskey.
“Yeah, clearly.” She rolls her eyes, shoving the bottle back into my hand. “Now, stop telling me what you don’t need and help me clean this up.”
Without waiting for me to say a word, she starts sorting through the mess of shit covering my floor.
Reluctantly, I let her and after a couple of minutes decide to throw on some background music and join her. I mean, it is my shit after all.
We work in comfortable silence, something I didn’t know could exist between the two of us. She sorts and hangs my clothes while I take care of most everything else, putting things where I want them to be, throwing away shit I no longer want, both of us stopping here and there to take a drink of whiskey.
When I packed, I literally threw my whole room into boxes and ran. Half the shit I didn’t even want, but at the time I wanted the fuck out of there and didn’t want to take the time to sort through it. Probably how that picture ended up among my things.
“There,” Barlow announces as she hangs the last shirt in the closet and turns to where I’m sitting on the floor, sorting through old notebooks and shit.
“You really didn’t have to do all that.”
“I know.” She slides down onto the floor a couple of feet in front of me, crossing her legs in front of herself as she leans forward and takes the bottle of Jack that’s sitting next to me. “What’cha got there?” she asks, pointing to an old sketchbook in my lap as she takes down the last remaining drops of liquid in the bottle.
“Nothing.” I quickly tuck it away. “Just some old sketches from when I was a kid.”
She leans to the right and drops the empty whiskey bottle into the box I’ve been filling with throw away items.
“Can I see?”
“What, are we friends now?”
“We could be,” she offers softly.
“Come again?” I’m sure the look on my face is priceless.
“We could be friends. Or better yet, we are friends.”
“Says who?”
“Says me, just now.” She laughs to herself.
“How much whiskey did you drink again?” I ask once I’ve picked my jaw up off the floor.
“Oh, shut up.” She swats at me.
I catch her hand mid-motion, and without really thinking about it, I tug her into my lap. She comes willingly, spreading her legs to straddle my waist.
What the fuck am I doing, you ask?
I don’t have the slightest fucking clue.
“You really think we could be friends?” I slide a hand up into her hair, pulling her face toward mine.
