𝐋𝐢𝐚𝐫, 𝐋𝐢𝐚𝐫 | 𝐉𝐉 𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐤

33. don't call your therapist cunty. (pt.1.)

T H I R T Y - T H R E E
don't call your therapist cunty.

"Grab anything you think I'd reasonably need in a twenty-four-hour period. Keeping in mind I'm constantly panicking and need to have all my bases covered," I instruct a stressed-looking JJ. "Well, chop chop, buddy. We've gotta go soon."

He glares. "I'm not your buddy. Buddies don't have shower sex," he mutters. "Or table sex, or-" I throw a box of tampons at his face, my emergency stash is now Nelly's and I-since starting my period just over a year ago-am perpetually terrified of not being prepared. The plastic packet bounces off his head and he catches it blindly. "What is- did you just throw tampons at me?"

"Put it in the bag. Since you have the attention span of a puppy I'm going to throw things at you, just to make sure you stay entertained."

A pair of socks, a spare pair of shorts, a shirt and a jumper, two pairs of spare underwear-you never know when you'll shit yourself, have I ever? No, but who says today won't be the day I shit myself twice?-that JJ looks all too pleased to be holding. A packet of crisps, a bar of chocolate and a cereal bar are next-finally a water bottle, deodorant, hair ties, a Diet Coke and a charging bank.

"I suppose I'm going to be the one carrying this?" JJ looks defeated at the stuffed backpack.

Crossing the room we finished just in time. I grab his cheeks and smack a kiss on his lips. "You're learning," I smile.

JJ follows behind me, we leave the house together. The man who's single-handedly destroying the walls I put up to keep me safe, runs in front of me and opens the car door for me. A lump in my throat forms at the gesture; something that I can't pick apart and convince myself of an anterior motive, he opened a door for me because he wanted to, he doesn't get anything for that. When JJ gets in the other side, we get going.

"You do know this isn't a four-week expedition?" Pope looks at me through the mirror.

"You never can be too sure. I'm pretty sure the Scout's motto is something about being prepared... I wasn't a Scout, but you know what I mean," I justify. "Stop the car!" The brakes are slammed, and my head hits Pope's headrest.

JJ puts something in my lap.

"False alarm. That was a good emergency stop, Pope." I pat his shoulder, feeling his erratic heartbeat under my palm. "I feel very secure in your driving abilities now."

Pope mutters about having a heart attack. Kie is in a foul mood, Pope texted me the bon voyage from her parents was messy.

The cardboard box in my lap is my sanity. A prized possession, if you will. My brother in crime. My best friend. Sertraline. We have a love-hate relationship, she gives me headaches, and I give her a big job to do. She pulls through for me, I have a side chick called ibuprofen.

It was sitting on my bedside table-there to always remind me to take the medication. I put it under my lamp, so when I turn it off for the night I see the pills.

I glance to my side, expecting a smug JJ. An I'm an amazing boyfriend not-boyfriend, look. But instead, he smiles and takes the box back, stuffing it back into the backpack sitting at his feet. These are the times when it's hard to keep JJ away; sure, the sex is great, but he-JJ the person-is better.

I shut my eyes, shuffling back and getting myself comfortable to lean against the window as we start the drive.

The gentle swaying in the car lulls me to sleep, like a fucking baby.

My head smacks against the window so hard I think my brain falls out of my nose. The car slams to a stop and Pope shouts, "Oh come on!"

My eyes peel open, and smoke wafts out the bonnet. A hiss cars definitely aren't supposed to make. The car swerves off the road as I reorient myself. This really is not the best wake-up call. Trying to figure out where on Earth we are is a useless endeavour, I barely know what the end of my street looks like, let alone somewhere that's likely hours away.