3.0 The Chronicles of Us - Choas & Clarity

Chapter thirteen

•★ Tex ★•

With my feet on the ground and my head in my hands, I stare at my keys. Ellie has been texting me to come over every night since I showed up unannounced a week ago. I'm pretty sure she diminished me to nothing but a fuckbuddy. I don't care. It's better than being nobody at all. At least this way I get to be with her and keep reminding her that what we have is very special and everlasting.

It's getting late, though. I expected her text over an hour ago, but she hasn't sent me anything. Call her and risk the chance of being considered pushy? Or wait patiently and risk insanity? Though choice. I don't wanna pressure her into inviting me over. Then again, I really, really wanna see her. Maybe her silence is a good thing. Maybe she's on the brink of forgiveness.

Yeah, right.

The fuck am I thinking? If she doesn't wanna see me tonight, she probably decided that she's done with me. And not in a 'I'm gonna let you sweat it for a bit' way.

I dig my phone out of my pocket, stare at it, and then toss it next to me. My mind is going absolutely fucking haywire. Me being at her beck and call for sex is not a good thing. We need to fucking talk. I need to explain—not that I have any—and apologize. She needs to yell while I grovel, scream while I beg, and when the dust is down, we can rise from the ashes. This 'casual sex with all strings attached' isn't getting us anywhere.

I throw my head back and cover my face with my hands. I don't know how long I can keep this up. The uncertainty is eating at me. Sure, the nights are fantastic. We fuck and talk. Not about recent events, though. Mostly we discuss dumb stuff, like who's gonna win The Bachelor—a guilty pleasure that I will never admit out loud—or whether a tomato qualifies as a fruit or vegatabale, which naturally leads to puzzling over every tomato-based savory dish i've ever eaten. I don't like the idea of fruit in my food, and now it seems I've been hoodwinked my entire life.

Getting off topic.

Anyway, sometimes, when she lies in my arms with her walls halfway down, she instigates sharing memories of better times—Disney World, our trip to New York, lunch dates, picnics on the beach ... that sorta thing. She wants to play pretend, but when morning breaks, reality kicks in and she tells me to leave. It feels as if she's pushing me further away. She's getting too comfortable on her own.

Am I losing her?

My silent yet extremely loud thoughts are interrupted by the buzzing of my phone. My heart jumps and drops simultaneously. This happens every time; afraid she will tell me it's over and hopeful to get another night. I reach for my phone and let out a breath when the screen comes to live.

Birdie: You forgot your cigarettes. I'm home if you want to pick them up.

Thank fucking God.

It's code. A sad lie, really. We both know I purposely leave stuff behind so she doesn't have to actually ask me to come over for sex.

I waste no time. Three seconds later I'm mounted on my bike and on my way. The strangely familiar drive takes a little over twenty minutes. While I walk up the flight of stairs, I take a deep breath. No fucking tonight. We're gonna talk. Really talk.

Determined, I knock on the door, but it's no use. As soon as the door swings open, her tongue is down my throat and her hands start tugging at my leather jacket. It hits the floor before I can make a single protest. Ah, fuck. How the hell am I supposed to keep a clear mind when her lips taste so sweet? I kiss her like tomorrow doesn't exist because, honestly, this moment needs to last forever.

Fuck it, we'll talk afterwards.

Her whole body wraps around me as I lift her by the ass to walk us to the bedroom, and her lips never leave mine. The springs of the single bed squeak loudly when I all but throw her on the mattress. She likes it when I'm a little rough and I like that too. To take what is mine. Or pretend she's still mine, in this case.