[Previously titled 𝗚𝘂𝗶𝗹𝘁𝘆 𝗣𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗲]
❝No, Ace. I can't do it," I sob.
"I know you can take more than that, sunshine, come on," he encourages, pummeling into me in fervent motions. "One more for daddy, yeah?" He coaxes in a gruffly voice...
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O L I V I A
"Darn it, my head hurts like a bitch," Jordan complains for the umpteenth time since we landed in the cafeteria, massaging her temples dramatically.
Yesterday's party escapade has left her nursing a hangover that's waging a full-blown war on her temples. I've played the responsible friend, nagging her to dial down the craziness, but it's like my words bounce off her.
"Looks like your head's throwing a mad rock concert, complete with strobe lights and all," I quip as Jordan groans, kneading her temples.
"Ah. Ah. I'm laughing my ass off,"
"Well, that's why you should consider swapping some of that craziness for seriousness in your work, firecracker. Who knows, this semester might just be the ticket to Paris if you give it a real shot," I admonish her in a parental tone, offering water and a painkiller.
Jordan and I are Pratt Institute comrades, both artsy to the core. But Jordan's gaze is fixed on the Eiffel Tower—she's a huge Paris enthusiast. The Louvre, Notre-Dame, the Eiffel Tower—they're all the stuff of Jordan's dreams.
Paris beckons to her like a siren's call, despite her inability to correctly utter "bonjour". And yes, even though it's hilarious, her French vocabulary remains as limited as a hamster's vocabulary.
The mere mention of the city lights up her eyes like a constellation. The girl's an art savant, no doubt, even if her demeanor doesn't scream "Picasso". She's taken the leap to apply for an exchange program to make her Parisian dreams a reality. The catch? She needs to kick it up a notch academically.
"Thanks, mamá," she teases me and downs the water bottle and the painkiller.
I roll my eyes at her, suppressing the grin that's about to break out. Sometimes, I genuinely wonder how she'd adult without me.
"Nice job surviving the 'clumsy-meets-concrete' incident," Jordan comments while smirking, referring to my nose.
It's been two weeks since my encounter with Ace, and strangely, my thoughts are fixated on him. His image has taken over my mind, and I've analyzed every detail on his face.
Maybe it's because he's a Grade-A stunner, or perhaps it's the intrigue that comes with someone so hard to read. Rationalizing this obsession's like trying to explain the Bermuda Triangle—you get lost in the mystery, and that's it.
"Yeah, my nose is back to business," I quip, giving my newly healed nose an affectionate tap.
"So, Mona Lisa, what deep thoughts were you pondering while strolling down the boulevard of who-knows-what?" Jordan inquires with a raised eyebrow, and I shoot her a grin.
"I was lost in a philosophical debate on the merits of...well, I don't remember. Might've been something profound like 'why does pizza taste so good at 2 am?'" I say and Jordan's look could've killed a cactus.
