All Things Considered [🗸]

3. ride home

AINSLEY WALKER IS VERY AGGRESIVELY in love with alt music and Lorde.

So, here we are, something by Lorde filtering into our ears, Ainsley's Timberlands tapping against the concrete flooring. Her curls are pulled into a single bun, some strands falling down to frame her face.

Her phone's situated on our outdoor table, students pouring out of the school which stands directly behind us. One earbud's in my ear and the other is in hers and she nods to the rhythm. 

Ainsley has a way of appreciating music. Her eyes flutter shut and she sort of jives in place, humming softly, fingertips drumming on the table. There's the faintest smile on her lips whenever she listens to it.

It's not a bad song. After all, you can never actually go wrong with Ainsley's playlist. It's god-tier, undeniably.

But of course, when the song comes to an end, she lowers the volume and meets my eyes. And without her saying a word, I'm already one hundred percent sure that she's asking if I'm okay. 

Which I am. I exhale, hand running through my curls, "I'm fine." Cayden and I sort of patched shit up a couple of days after the bonfire. Although, I can't be sure if I would use the phrase patch-up when really, no one apologized for shit and we silently agreed to move on.

Her eyes rest on mine, head tilted slightly to the side, because Ainsley is scarily fucking perceptive about everything and anything. All it takes is a blink, and she's onto you. Really, though, I'm not sure if I'm trying to convince Ainsley that everything is fine as I am trying to convince myself that everything is fine.

"Stop psychoanalyzing me, plebeian." I finally say, and Ainsley's face crinkles up as she kicks me underneath the table, hands raising up in defense.

"Fine, fine," she says, "I believe you, jackass. Somewhat."

Ainsley increases the volume once more and something by Frank Ocean rises to the air. Her lips curve into a half-smile and I rise to my feet, stepping slightly away from the table and holding my hands out to her.

She rolls her eyes but complies and we swing our interlocked hands back and forth, cackling as we move beneath the sunlight. And even though things don't feel completely, utterly, and entirely perfect, this moment does.

Although, it is cut short as Maia Sasaki—hair an electric blue today—bounds up to the front. Ainsley turns toward her girlfriend, grinning as Maia Sasaki returns the same grin. They look at each other for two seconds and their entire faces light up.

Maia's hand links with Ainsley's and Ainsley turns back toward me, "want to come with? We're getting frozen yogurt." 

And fuck if that isn't a tempting offer. I've been starved of frozen yogurt and all I want is to nod yes and slip into Maia Sasaki's lesbian-esque pick-up truck. It would be so fucking fun.