One Word | H.S.

Chapter Eighteen

AN: For personal reasons, ouch. 

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Metaphor.

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I'm calling my four husbands.

They better band together and beat the living shit out of Pretty Boy, or we're all getting a divorce.

He keeps shaking me, his grip firm on my bicep as he continues to flash his satanic grin. Not to mention, Diane looks like she is about to collapse to the ground, the tightness of her sundress restricting any breathing.

She looks like the American flag.

Red, white, and blue.

I should be relishing in this, rejoicing that somebody managed to shut this woman up for once in her goddamn life. But, I'm just as speechless. The sweat that is forming on my palms is even causing the beer to slip from my grasp.

Protect to beer.

Harry and I were supposed to be ex-spouses. Divorcees. Separated. Bounded only by Auggie.

But now, we are ex-spouses; divorced as a result of my four other marriages, but we continue to fuck on occasion, my ass apparently being animalistic in bed.

This is certainly going to be brought back to the parents, Diane's mouth being a marathon runner. She'll probably ring my mother immediately, filling her in on my disgusting ways.

Hm, wait.

My parent's have always had this ideal family in their heads: the large mansion, the perfect kids, successful jobs. They have always worked so hard to achieve their goal, doing whatever it took to make sure they were envied. Yet, they lost their own children in the process.

They attempted to mold us into these flawless pots, but their technique was poor. The clay would never adhere to their movements, continuing to break as they tried desperately to fix the broken lines.

In their minds, though, they didn't lose anything. They removed of a blemish on their perfected reputation, blaming Auggie and I for their departure.

"We tried, they just never put in the effort. We want our babies back so bad."

Let's see how much they 'want me back' when they hear that I go Wolverine mode on four, well, five different men.

I re-adjust my posture, standing taller as I shoot her a confident smile, "Why settle for one dick when you can have five?" I laugh, Harry nodding passionately as he closes his eyes, "And all at once." He adds.

I feel as though Harry and I would actually be wonderful friends if, well, if we didn't fight so much. Maybe, it's my fault. I could have been too abrupt at the bar, but that was a night in which I just needed to be alone.

We bounce off each other with such ease, as if our minds are connected as one. I could say one word and he would be able to finish the rest of the sentence.

Diane grips the champagne glass, continuing to swallow the rising bile as she composes herself. She clears her throat, her perfectly manicured hand holding her chest, "I'm happy," she chokes out, pushing a curl behind her ear, "I'm happy you two found that balance."

She isn't the slightest bit happy for us, she is scared. Scared of our attire, of our relationship, of the words we spoke. These people don't know what life is like outside of country clubs and "community service". Though, we are making the entire thing up, the story alone is more interesting than their entire lives.

My life isn't the greatest, I am well aware, but it has substance. It holds stories that I will remember until the end of time, memories that will never fade.