Nothing I Wouldn't Do

46 ♠ DEFENCE

Genevieve

IT BURNS AGAINST MY POCKET.

I decided with wearing a jacket this morning as the wind began to pick up speed for this blustery day as March is bleeding into April. The sky is completely blanketed by gunmetal clouds, threatening a torrent of rain. Thus far there's been no effort to make good on that threat. But because of the prospect of rain and the howling wind, I'm wearing a jacket.

And Ford played that to his advantage.

Somehow. How did his mind work like that? Why did he think about dropping some small piece of paper—my hand clutches it tightly, willing to be on my own so I can divulge its contents—instead of just messaging me?

But this builds the anticipation. I'm desperate to stray from Talia and Quinn for long enough to view the contents of this message, but I also acknowledge that I need to be discreet, otherwise Quinn will get far too suspicious. She's already been onto me since I blurted out haven't you ever fallen for the wrong person? and she knows I'm swaying back to him.

"Why is he always there?" Quinn mutters when Ford struts past us, eyes focusing on me so briefly I start to wonder if it ever actually happened at all and instead is just a figment of my imagination. "Like a bad smell."

Talia and I share a pointed glance at one another, but Quinn doesn't seem to notice.

We're on our way to the cafeteria to grab some lunch as none of us had packed any today. Talia's finished with her classes for today, but Quinn and I have two more back-to-back. And right now, I can't endure several more hours with this goddamn piece of paper nestled in my pocket that Ford dropped in so deftly without succumbing and revealing its contents.

"I'm just gonna head to the toilets real quick," I announce abruptly, spotting the sign up ahead.

"Same. Grab us a table, Quinn?"

Quinn nods, losing her earlier ill-mannered mood elicited by Ford. "Sure."

Talia and I deviate away together, and I'm thankful for the emptiness of these toilets. As I step into a cubicle, I'm instantly retrieving the folded piece of paper, my pulse spiking as the anticipation has reached an all-time high. Could it be something pertinent to Carson and the investigations into the girls and Frederick? Or is it another confession of sorts?

The angle of the light above me makes me realize that this is definitely not a confession or any words at all, though I fail at identifying what the markings may mean. Focusing my gaze on the fact that something is scrawled on the other side, I hastily unfold the paper.

When I do, I want to laugh.

Fuck, I so want to laugh, no matter how confusing my feelings are for him.

While I indisputably have feelings for him that are running deeper by the day and no amount of resistance will overthrow these feelings, I need to trust him again entirely. I need to be completely secure with him and whatever type of relationship we can have. Without a foundation of trust, what is there?

But as I pour over what Ford's drawn me—it must have taken only mere seconds, given how quickly he caught up to us—my heart feels lighter. He has no idea what it's like to actually date someone, but this is proving me wrong. Giving me a little note like this... it's something shared between only us.

Ford has drawn a piss poor sketch of two people on a motorcycle. They're stick figures on a stick motorcycle.

Ford Brody: champion boxer.

Ford Brody: cyber security extraordinaire.

Ford Brody: shitty artist.

And with the swell of pride in my chest that he's done this in reference to our conversation this morning when I firmly opted for going in his Audi than riding on his motorcycle, the smile touches my lips before I realize it. The little detail of the hair on the stick figure on the back of the motorcycle—a blatant indicator that it's me—dizzyingly makes me want to re-enact it out.