Mess You Made

50.

Miguel.

"You brought me food!"

I grin over at Rome as I shut the door of his car, settling myself inside. Make myself comfortable and breathe in the scent of burgers. I look over at him, "Hoexters?"

Best fucking food spot in the Upper East if you ask me. You should visit if you ever have the chance— second to Au Cheval, but you have to book for that one. JG Melon's a favourite too but whenever Roman gets me food, it's most often from Hoexters.

I open up the bag and like expected, there's a double smash cheeseburger inside. Fries. Fuck yeah.

"You didn't get yourself anything?" I say.

Rome puts his phone down, shakes his head, "Had a dinner."

"With your cousins?" I say, more focused on unwrapping the burger, "Dude— not that it'd make much difference to you, but I'd put you in my fucking will."

I start eating, look over at him. He's in his signature suit and Roman always looks somewhat tense, but there's something a little more strained about him tonight. I pause, nod my chin, "You good?"

He nods but he's fucking around with his hands a lot— he does that normally, like he's always weirdly cracking his knuckles or flexing his hands like a tic, but it's a bit incessant. Eventually, he glances over when he realises I'm looking and the way his dark brows are drawn together remind me of Hudson.

"Good." He nods, rests his head back against the leather seat, "I never come to you to think about my own happenings. How's Malibu?"

I watch him for a second longer because I know this is what we do— escape for a second. Stop being who we need to be. He prefers hearing about me and I think it's like this strange way of like— understimulating? If it makes sense. Even if it isn't a word. Calming, not having to be around his own life.

"She's good." I say and try for a moment to stop thinking about her because I can never stop once I start— not that I ever really stop.

"Did you buy her that crib?"

"Hm." I dig into the fries, "She hasn't got it yet, though, so if I don't make it to next week— it was her."

His dark eyes look mildly amused where he looks outwards to the bland view of the parking garage below my apartment complex. I roll it around in my head, whether I bring it up, but he's my best friend. I don't have another one of those. And it's filling my head so much that I just need to get it out. The only person I want to tell, anyways.

"Has Adelaide ever been with anyone else?" I ask.

His entire body tenses, and the way his gaze finds mine is taken aback— and he's rarely taken aback. He hates being taken aback because he doesn't look happy, "What?"

"Before you."

He rolls his head to the side, stares forward, "I don't know."

Don't know if I believe him— but okay. He never doesn't know. I nod a few times and he looks over at me, asking, "What's on your mind?"

"Nothing." I shake my head— but I can't hide shit from him so I turn towards him a bit, make a bit of a face, "I'm all in with her."

He raises a flat eyebrow, "Are we stating the unknown?"

"Properly in with her. I'm fucked up over her."

He drags his head back again, "Still stating the absolute unknown. Can we move on perchance—"

"Rafe Christos was fucked up over her." I say quickly, and his brows furrow in confusion.

"Who?"

"And I don't know the guy." I shake my head, "I don't know him past knowing that his dad beats the fuck out of him, and he's notorious, everywhere, for bad shit— and that he loved her." I say, "Properly loved her."