What's home, if not the first place you flee from? What's love, if not that blazing, unexplainable feeling born from the ashes of hate?
Reputable for her appeal, servility, and obsession with cartoons, Alaina is a workaholic immigrant doctor who's s...
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The Weeknd ft. JENNIE and Lily Rose Depp - One Of The Girls.
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"FLUSTERED" BARELY SCRAPES THE SURFACE of how I'm feeling right now.
I'm still reeling—from the heat of his chest on my near-bare skin, from the scent of him flooding my lungs, from his hands owning every inch of me, his voice coating my ears, that damned conversation looping like a chant.
Aphrodite isn't the most beautiful woman in the world...
Kiss me...
Goodnight, SpongeBob.
Jesus. I wasn't hallucinating that night. He's really calling me SpongeBob.
He Googled the cartoon's full name—for me.
He Googled how to untangle curls—for me.
He hasn't stepped into the ring since that day in his Toronto kitchen, even though fighting is apparently one of his savage pastimes. And he quit—because of me. I knew he wasn't bluffing. I knew because I remembered how he stopped stumbling home late, bruised and busted, right after I begged him to stop.
Mr. Ash asked me to kiss him. Said he likes getting intimate with me. Sure, he tossed in a "maybe," but that word meant jack to me. All I could think about was how right it'd feel to cave and meet him halfway. That request stirred something light and shameful in my system—made me want to grab him and tear into both our greedy wants.
Then I remembered all the cruel ways he's treated me. I thought of Ingrid Reid. And Theresa Ash. And just like that, the spell broke.
Oh, my God. What even is all this?
I slam my hairbrush onto the vanity harder than necessary.
Irritation floods me.
He dared me to kiss him.
He's calling me SpongeBob. Who does that? Who gives their enemy a nickname? Because we're not friends. And what sort of pathetic girl smiles when her enemy gives her one?
What kind of nickname is SpongeBob?
Oh, no.
No, no, no, no.
God, please, no.
This is exactly why I made that mental schedule—to stop myself from catching feelings for Mr. Ash. But instead of following my own damn plan, my fool heart's been fluttering over a dumb nickname—and all the ridiculously sweet things he's been saying to me.
You'd think falling for a man like him would be hard. It's not.
It's terrifyingly easy. Especially when he keeps doing thoughtful things for me. And the weight of that realization crushes me because deep down, I know I might leave California with a tattoo. Not inked into skin, but etched into the expressions my friends will give me—and the look his mama will wear.
