#los angeles tap water in a jar

[astercontrol]

about to have a therapy appointment and don't want to deal with the whole "therapist assuming poor mental health because no makeup" thing

maybe she's born with it, maybe it's Crayola UltraClean Washable 40 Classic Colors

[steppedoffaflight]

Summer’s a Knife - Chapter 2

Catch up on Chapter 1 here

You don’t respond, silence in the air as you both catch your breath.

“I’ve got no use for sex that sounds straight out of a porno.” Van lifts his head, and you flinch at the intensity in his eyes. “I’d rather it be fucking real. No bullshit. If you’re having a good time, sure, say it. But if you’re not, say that too.”

or

Almost three months later, Van McCann is back in L.A. and ready to take you up on that dinner date

Word count: ~15k

Chapter Two

April 2019

By the time you’ve pulled into the Whole Foods parking lot, having squeezed through afternoon traffic, you’re at your wits end. Work had consisted of eight tedious hours fixing someone else’s mistakes instead of working on your own projects, and you’re already dreading the hit your paycheck is about to take from this grocery shopping. 

Your phone buzzes on the passenger seat next to you, no doubt Mary offering up some positivity in response to the giant work rant you’d just texted her. You already roll your eyes before you’ve picked up the phone and pressed your fingerprint to the sensor.

Hey. It’s Van x The gray bubble on your screen catches you off guard. You’d saved Van’s number months ago, his contact info at the top of the conversation reading “Van San Diego”. Thinking about how long ago your trip feels makes the whole thing seem even more surreal. 

You gape at your screen for way too long, heart pounding, before you respond with a Hi!

After you’ve hit send, you panic over responding too fast. You let the car continue to run for the sake of air conditioning and you don’t let your screen lock, waiting anxiously for Van’s next message. When one doesn’t come after ten minutes you resign to cutting the ignition, finally facing the fact you’ve got shopping to do.

You can’t stop checking your phone as you roll your cart through the aisles, careful not to let your eyes wander to any items that aren’t on your list. You’re carefully examining the label on an overpriced pasta sauce when you hear the buzz of your phone against the cart. You almost drop the jar in your hand.

I know it’s been a while but I’m finally back in la. Still up for that dinner?

As you’re reading the indication that he’s typing starts, sending a shot of adrenaline through you.

No worries if not just let me know x

You screenshot his messages immediately and forward them to Mary for her opinion. Predictably, she hadn’t responded to your rant, but sends an OMG the second you show her the screenshot. 

Have you messaged him back ?! she sends in response to your I knowww!!! 

Nooo I don’t wanna look too eager you tap excitedly to her. You’re jolted back to reality when another cart suddenly bumps into yours.

“Sorry,” You apologize, quickly steering your cart away. You say it purely for the sake of politeness, even though you’re almost positive you weren’t in the way and the person could have rolled by without jostling all your things. All of your mundane worries are pushed to the back of your mind. You’re finally getting that promised dinner date with Van!

The rest of your shopping trip is as chaotic as your brain feels. Between lightning-fast exchanges with Mary about what you’ll say and when you’ll say it you haphazardly scrap together the rest of your list. You’re sure you’re forgetting something as you send it down the conveyor belt to the cashier, but you’re too frazzled to care. The only thing that matters at this point is getting home, cracking open the bottle of wine you’d purchased (on impulse, unfortunately) and accepting Van’s invitation. 

And you do just that. Upon getting home you only put away your fresh items, leaving the rest to sit on the floor in their bags. It’s not the best practice, but it’s necessary after the day you’ve had. You pour a generous amount of wine into a regular glass, not caring enough to fish out a wine glass, and change out of your work wardrobe and into your most worn-in sweats. Only after you’ve plopped down onto the couch and taken a swallow of wine to calm your nerves do you allow yourself to respond: We could totally do dinner! When?

You feel slightly remorseful for leaving Van without a response for almost two hours. You chew the inside of your cheek as you berate yourself for it.

What works best for you? I’m here for the next two weeks and free most nights

You consider his response. Most of the time it feels like you’re the only person in L.A. that’s free most nights. Is he not the partying type? He seems like he would be, considering the way he went straight to the bar after his show in January. 

Does tomorrow work? You send. It feels a bit off to schedule something so soon, but tomorrow’s Friday, and you wouldn’t have to worry about staying out late considering you’ve got no work Saturday. Plus, the longer you wait the more likely things are to be packed into Van’s schedule. And, you remind yourself, this dinner is more than two months in the making.

Another text from Van interrupts the churning thoughts in your head. Tomorrow’s ace, he says first, and then another message: I’ll pick you up followed by a third: What time? 

You exchange a few more messages, setting up a time and making sure he has your address. Once the logistics are worked out, Van sends Look forward to it x and that feels like a good note to end the conversation on. You melt into your couch cushions and down the rest of your wine with a sigh.

\\

If yesterday felt like a long workday, then today feels like it’s lasting an eternity.

You try to burn though time texting Mary, attempting to cut down on your getting ready time by verbally planning your outfit in advance. Still, the minutes seem to tick by at a snail’s pace. You try to get some work done and catch yourself repeatedly screwing up your spreadsheet with typos. Even triple-checking everything you enter doesn’t seem to eat up any time. You visit the water cooler too much, and pee repeatedly as a result. Eventually, somehow, you make it to 5, slinging your bag over your shoulder and murmuring quick goodbyes as you dash out of the office. 

When you get home you’re laser focused. You tackle showering first, the task made longer with all of the shaving that needed to be done, followed by the slippery process of moisturizing every inch of your skin. It takes up more time than you’d like, but in San Diego you’d been completely unprepared for a hookup. This time you wanted to be ready. 

Van sends a heading over text just as you’d finished blow drying and styling your hair. You get dressed, then, layering the outfit you and Mary had agreed on over a matching black lace bra and panty set. They were at the bottom of your underwear drawer, crumpled and forgotten, tags still intact. As you clip away the tags you hope out loud to yourself in the kitchen that they still fit, and sigh in relief when you’re able to shimmy the set on. 

Maybe it’s the traffic, or maybe Van lied about when he was leaving, but by the time he texts that he’s arrived you’re waiting for him on the couch, having managed to get your makeup routine done just in time. The house is in complete disarray from your rush, and you cringe to yourself as you get a look at the tornado you’ve caused before you shut the door, locking it securely, and turning to seek out Van’s car.

There’s a black Range Rover pulled up on the street, the only car on the block running right now. You can see the dim blue light of Van’s phone screen through the tint of the windows, and as you approach you can see his silhouette. 

He looks up when you tug open the car door, sliding into the front passenger seat. 

You’re pleased when his face lights up. A part of you had almost been expecting that he’d rethink his attraction to you now that there was no post-show adrenaline or late night beers to cloud his judgement.

“Hello,” He laughs, “Long time no see!”

He’s just as charismatic as you remember him, your nerves easing as you make yourself comfortable. The crisp lace underneath your clothes is stiff and itchy, and you wiggle around as discretely as possible.

“Hey,” You greet him. “It feels like it’s been forever.”

Van nods, kicking the car into gear. “You’re telling me. Been a busy couple months.”

You hum in sympathy even if you can’t relate. Your busiest times of the year were summer- when most of your coworkers went on extended vacations and you were responsible for making up their work- and the holidays, when you had to coordinate trips home to see your family.

“You look amazing, by the way,” Van says, managing a quick glance over at you with a smile.

“Aw, thanks,” You murmur, chronically awkward at receiving compliments. “You look great, too.”

“Ah, stop. Makin’ me blush, love,” he jokes, and you can’t help but giggle at his sarcasm. It’s strange how familiar he feels, the result of just one night.

“So.” You peer out of the windows, looking for any hint of where you were headed. “What do you have planned?”

“Got a reservation for eight at this really nice place, dunno if you’ve ever heard of it.” Van stumbles over some sort of French pronunciation. “We’ve had a couple of dinners there with label people and it’s always class.”

“Sounds lovely,” You tell him. You’ve never heard of the place, but then again your Los Angeles friend group was lacking any musicians making a big break, let alone getting invited to dinner with Capitol Records staff. “Never heard of it.”

“You’ll like it,” Van says confidently.

You glance over at the clock on the dashboard display. It’s set to 24-hour time, so you pick up your phone instead of mentally trying to calculate it.

“How far away is it?” You ask nervously. It’s dangerously close to eight. 

“Not too far,” Van shrugs, but he’s driving into the tail end of stop-and-go traffic. You try to swallow down your anxiety.

\\

Finding a parking spot is a pain in the ass, but eventually Van’s maneuvered his car into one of the parallel spots lining the sidewalk.

By the time you two are out of the car, crossing the street to the restaurant, it’s almost ten minutes after your reservation time. Van seems oblivious to this, breezily strutting into the place, holding the door for you as usual. He’s whistling absentmindedly, and you wonder if it’s one of his own songs. He keeps whistling until you two approach the podium in the lobby.

“Reservation name?” The hostess asks, turning the pages in the binder in front of her.

“McCann.”

The hostess takes a second to look over her pages before she motions. “Right this way.”

There’s no mention of the fact you guys are late as she opens a door on the wall behind the podium, leading you two into the dining area. It’s a stark contrast from the drab, dim decor of the small lobby area. The floors are glossy white, almost shiny enough to reflect your face back to you, and although there are some larger tables most of them are the quintessential small, circular two-seaters with silky white tablecloths draped over them. The walls are dark in typical L.A. style, but covered in windows that frame the courtyard outside, lanterns glowing and candlelit outdoor tables visible. 

Almost everyone is in black tie attire, and you feel self-consciousness broil in your stomach as the hostess leads you and Van to to your own small table. You’re curious if there’s other celebrities here, but you’re too afraid of looking like an outsider by trying to peek at people as you pass by. You keep your eyes on the back of Van’s head instead, examining where his hair parts on his scalp. 

You’re waved to your assigned table with the assurance that someone will be with you shortly before the hostess sees herself back to the front room. In the time you’ve paused to listen to her words Van’s already ahead of you, pulling out one of the covered chairs and motioning for you to sit.

“You know you don’t have to do that,” You tell him as you sit in the seat he’s designated for you. He takes his own seat opposite you.

“Does it offend you?” Van asks, and you watch his brow crease in concern.

“No!” You’re quick to assure him. “I’m not offended, or anything like that. I’m just saying, I won’t tell everyone this was the worst date of my life just because you didn’t pull the chair out or hold the door.”

Van laughs, the worry easing out of his expression. “S’ just a force of habit. It’s more trouble for me to stop at this point in my life than it is to just keep doing it.”

You nod in understanding before reaching for the menu and searching for the drinks.

“Do you know what you’re drinking?” Van asks after a small stretch of silence where you’re both looking at your respective menus. 

“What are you drinking?” You answer his question with a question, eager to be able to gauge the most appropriate choice for yourself. The drink menu is long and most of the items seem hard to pronounce, and despite knowing Van intimately you’ve still got first date jitters. Not to mention, you were on a budget.

“I usually get this wine,” Van tells you, using his index finger to point it out for you on your menu. “M’not gonna drink too much considering I’m drivin’, but it goes great with the lobster.” 

You hum as you read over the tiny italics font describing the wine. “Sounds good,” You say finally, “I’ll have it with you.”

“I’ll get us a bottle, then.”

You swallow hard when you read the price listed for the entire bottle, but manage to stifle any worries. You’ve waited 3 months for this date, there can’t be any real harm in one luxurious dinner. And the cost of the bottle divided into two wasn’t so outrageous.

“Perfect.” You close your menu, decision made.

By the time the server has taken your wine order, returned with chilled glasses and doled out servings to each of you, and delivered a fresh bread basket and dinner menus, your stomach is grumbling and you’re eager to scour through the menu and figure out what you’re having. 

“God, I’m starving,” You sigh, buttering a warm bread roll. In your ravenous state you bite off more than you can politely chew, but thankfully Van doesn’t notice as he’s taking a peek at his phone. 

“Same.” He was listening even in his distracted state, and as soon as he sets his phone back down he reaches for his own roll.

“So…” You start, flipping open your menu to (surprise) even more expensive, french-titled meals. “What’s good here?”

“The lobster,” Van laughs. “It’s the only thing I’ve had here. Had it once and kept craving it forever.”

He must be able to sense that answer doesn’t satisfy you, because he opens his own menu. “Bondy loves the roast. Says it’s one of the best he’s ever had.”

“Not a huge fan of roast,” You tell Van, but flip the pages until you find the meal he’s talking about. “Who’s Bondy?” The name sounds familiar, and in your head you replay the encounter you had outside of Van’s hotel room in San Diego. Was Bondy the one stuck behind the luggage?

“Johnny Bond, he’s our guitar player. Goes by Bondy.”

“Ah. Who’s the one with the…?” You trail off, but motion with your hands around your head to convey the thick head of curls you remember from that night.

“That’s Benji. Our bassist.”

“Benji,” You repeat quietly to yourself. The name doesn’t ring a bell, but the hair does.

“He likes the roast chicken,” Van suggests. “But he’s not allowed to say it’s the best because my mum makes a mean roast chicken and it’s deffo the best.”

“That sounds good. I’m gonna get that.” You try not to openly cringe at the price.

Van opens his mouth to speak, but from the way he’s looking over your shoulder you know the server’s returned to take down your orders. 

��There’s Bob, too,” Van says unprovoked when you two are alone again. “He’s easy to pick out. Wears glasses.”

Your brain can connect the dots there: A man with glasses hidden away behind a drumset in the few photos you’d seen on google.

“Is he drums?” You’re hesitant in case you’re wrong, but Van perks up so you know you’ve got it right.

“He is.” Van takes a drink from his wine glass.

There’s a pause in conversation. You try to wrack your brain for a topic, but your knowledge of his band is shaky and not trivia-proof. 

“Are you guys close?” Seems like a safe enough question to ask.

“Me ‘n Bob?”

“Everyone,” You elaborate, lacing your fingers together. “Are you guys, like, at each other’s throats?”

“Nah. They’re my best mates. I’ve known Bob and Benji since we were younger, in school. Used to play on the same footie team and all’a that. Bondy didn’t come into the picture until we were a bit older but I’d heard of him before. Thought he was crazy talented, couldn’t believe he actually wanted to join us. Everyone’s massively talented, really. Wouldn’t be the same without them.”

You drink in the reverence in his voice as he talks about his friends.

“I was just with ‘em today, actually. Been at the studio for most of the day.”

“Well, that’s good that you guys get along.” You offer him a smile which he returns.

“You’re telling me. Couldn’t imagine if things went sour. Having fights over guitar riffs and drumbeats all day.”

You try to picture Van angry and fail. “What do you do in the studio?”

“We’re putting the finishing touches on our next album. It’s due out at the end of the month.”

“Oh, no way!” Your eyes widen in interest. “That’s really cool.”

Van grins. “Yeah, proper excited. Think it’s our best one yet.”

“So is that how you ended up in L.A.? Music?” As much as you’re trying to get a feel for Van, L.A. seems like the last place on earth he’d enjoy living. Considering his lack of social media presence or desire to pressure others into buying sponsored products, and the fact that the band definitely seems more popular in the U.K. than America, you can’t quite put a finger on his motives.

“Yeah. I lived in New York for a bit, when we first got signed, but ended up moving down here. L.A. is sort of the hub for the business end. I spend a good bit of time in London, but the weather down here is nice.”

“So nice,” You agree. The constant summer is worlds different than the unpredictable midwest climate you were raised in.

“Right?” Van beams. “We just spent a while at this place in Ireland, writing and doing most of the recording. And it was just absolute pouring rain everyday. So once we got outta there we thought why not enjoy some time in the sun?”

You chuckle in agreement, taking the first drink of your wine. It tastes better than you were anticipating, and the pleasant surprise must show on your face.

“It’s good, innit?” Van takes his own sip. “Not much of a wine guy, but this stuff…” He trails off, nodding in approval. “Anyway, enough about me. Been droning on for ages. You said you weren’t from L.A., right? How’d you end up here?”

It’s your turn to be interrupted by the server with fresh, hot meals in tow. There’s the momentary fuss of getting situated with food in front of you, and by the time you guys are settled again the question has slipped away as you two dig into your food.

“This is amazing,” You affirm after your first hot forkful of chicken and roasted vegetables. “Who said this was amazing? They were right.”

“Blakes,” Van replies through a mouthful of lobster.

“Blakes?” You stop your fork midair. “Who’s Blakes?”

Van is still chewing his food, so you hurry up and eat the piece of potato speared on your fork. 

“Benji,” Van clarifies after he swallows. “Benji is Blakes.” He coughs around a sip of his drink when he must see the confusion on your face.

“His name is Benji Blakeway. Blakes is his nickname.”

The name attaches itself to the memory in your head. The c’mon, Blakes, from the guy in the hat rings through your mind.

“Who wears the hat?” You try to get the last puzzle piece in place. You’ve seen whoever it is on google, always wearing the same flat cap.

“Bondy.”

“Okay. So you, Bob, Bondy, Benji.”

Van nods, looking pleased, and you feel a sense of satisfaction spread through you.

“I forgot,” Van says suddenly, “You were just about to tell me how you ended up in L.A.”

“Oh, right.” You look down at your food. “Full disclosure, it’s really lame.”

When you look up, Van’s put his fork down, prepared to listen fully.

You have some wine to calm your nerves. You’ve finished your glass, so you procrastinate by pouring yourself some more.

“It’s just… really childish and impulsive.”

Van laughs. “You’re only making me more interested!”

You huff out a laugh at that. “So… I guess it all started in high school. Which I went to in Michigan, by the way. It’s um,” You gesture with your hand, “It’s the state that looks like a mitten. Close to Canada. Anyway, I had this boyfriend in high school, and senior year he broke up with me.” You laugh at yourself, bringing a hand to your forehead for a moment. “God, this sounds so dramatic. But when you’re in high school you think you’re going to last forever with someone, your first love and all that, y’know.”

Van seems amused. “How old were you?” 

“Well I was like…” You scrunch your face up, thinking back, “14 when we first met, and we were close friends for a while, and then 15 when we actually started dating, and 18 when we broke up.”

“Right,” You plow on, “So, first love and all that good stuff. So we break up when we were 18, which honestly needed to happen. We just didn’t get along anymore but we were so comfortable being a couple by then, you know? We were different as adults, so naturally we break up, whatever. The point is I was fucking devastated.”

You take a deep breath, another drink, and try to prepare yourself to tell the rest of the story.

“So my best friend and I had always had it in our heads, I don’t even know why, that we wanted to come to L.A.”

“Mary?” Van cuts in.

“No, not Mary. I met Mary once I moved here.” You clear your throat, getting back on topic. “I think it’s because of the weather, honestly,” You laugh at your immaturity at that age. “We were so tired of Michigan winters. They’re fucking… cold. And my friend can sing, so naturally we’re thinking you get into L.A. and boom, you’re discovered.”

You gauge Van’s attention then. He’s still listening close.

“So after high school, we had both been saving up for what we thought was this imaginary sort of dream, but then I was broken up with, and depressed, and I kept seeing him everywhere because our town was kind of small, and so we decided… Let’s just pack up and leave!”

Van’s lips quirk up at that. “I was always the same way,” He interjects softly. “Small town thing. Your parents didn’t mind?”

“Well, I convinced them that UCLA was my dream school. So of course they couldn’t say much because I ended up being accepted into a really amazing school, and they had heard me talk about L.A. before. So we get here, and… y’know… Things just didn’t work out that way.”

“When do they ever?” Van jokes.

You nod in agreement around a quick bite of chicken. “Exactly!” You say, wiping the corners of your mouth with your napkin. “It costed so fucking much to live here, and we burned through our savings really fast, and… We ended up becoming even closer through that and we dated for a couple years, and I invested a lot of time into trying to get her discovered because we couldn’t afford rent, but then she got into the wrong group and was getting into cocaine, it was… Intense.”

Your palms are sweating from your admission, and you can’t get yourself to look Van in the eyes, heart racing. 

“So… yeah. Thankfully I’ve made a lot of friends here- the right kind, not the cocaine kind- and I got a really nice internship through UCLA and found an okay job, and me and her went our separate ways. And that’s when I met Mary, and she grew up here so she was able to show me around, and we’ve been inseparable ever since.”

You can feel anxiety clenching in your chest while your admitted interest in women still hangs in the air. You wish it still wasn’t so nerve-wracking to come out, and maybe it wouldn’t be except for the fact you and Van seem to really hit it off, and you would hate for this to be a dealbreaker for him. 

You finally manage to look away from where you’d been carefully inspecting a small stain you’d made on the tablecloth. Van’s leaned back from his plate, an easy smile spread over his face. His arms are crossed across his chest as he marvels at you.

“We’ve got more in common than I thought,” He says grinning. “We can both discuss our ex-girlfriends. Cheers.”

He reaches for his wine glass and you reach for yours too. If Van notices how your wine is trembling from the hand holding the glass, he doesn’t call out as you two clink your glasses together, relief starting to seep through you.

“I love that,” He remarks, still beaming. “Proper ‘escape the small town’ story. I wish mine was as interesting as yours.”

“You do not,” You roll your eyes good-naturedly. “Yours is better! You ended up actually getting discovered.”

“Lots of hard work, that’s all.” Van shrugs. 

Van tells a few lighthearted stories about struggling to get discovered while you guys finish up your meals. True to his word, he stays light on the wine in preparation to drive, spacing out only two glasses the whole time you’ve been here. You’re not sure how many you’ve had, but you figure it can’t be that many. The only telltale signs that let you know you’ve got alcohol in your system are the flush in your cheeks, the way the lights seem to shine a bit softer, and the way you can feel your eyes drifting over Van dreamily.

When the waitress brings the check Van reaches for his back pocket immediately, procuring a card from his wallet.

“You didn’t have to do that,” You say, your eyes widening in shock. “I was gonna pay for mine.” The cost of the entire bottle of wine, combined with both of your dinners floats in your mind.

One side of Van’s mouth lifts in a confused half-smile. “I said I was taking you out for dinner, didn’t I? Dunno if it means the same thing here, but if I’m taking you out why would you pay?”

“I mean, I just… Didn’t want to assume, I guess.” It’s burned you before, dates gone wrong where the check gets split by surprise. “It’s happened before.”

Van snorts. “Sounds fucking awful.”

You nod, eyes wide. “It really was.”

Your mind flips through a few of your worst dates, interrupted only by Van’s card being returned, you two sent on your way.

Van starts humming when you two meander out of the restaurant and across the street to his car, sidling into the front seats.

“Should I take you back to yours?” He asks as he gets the car started. “Or we could go back to mine. Watch a film or somethin’.”

There’s silence in the car while Van checks his phone. You decide to look at yours, too, checking the time. The night is still young.

“Back to yours sounds nice.” The wine makes your voice soft, betrays the way your heart skips at the suggestion.

Van licks his lips, still typing something. He looks up finally. “Mine?”

“Yeah.”

He gets the car into gear, pulling out of the parking space. With a few taps on a screen in the center of the dashboard his phone is connected by bluetooth and music rings out through the car. You recognize it as the song he was humming minutes ago.

You drive in silence for most of the ride, all talked out from dinner, but your interest piques when Van turns the music down.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” You say nervously. Your head tries to predict what’s coming next.

“The thing, with you and your ex. Was it a one time sort of deal? Or do you still play for both teams?”

You chew the inside of your cheek. “I still play for both. I’m bisexual.”

“Got it.”

“Why?” You feel yourself bristle. “Is it a problem?”

“Not at all,” Van shrugs, slowly turning the music back up. “Just wasn’t sure what to call it.”

\\

It takes about a half hour to get to Van’s, a journey that includes weaving through a winding, uphill street crammed with upscale homes. Van’s home is in a cluster at the top of the hill, and typing in the gate code reveals a long driveway up to a house surrounded by a tall thicket of bamboo.

“I love the bamboo,” You tell him as he pulls the car in front of the garage, but doesn’t bother to park it inside. “The worst part of living here is feeling like your neighbors are breathing down your neck.” When you step out of the car you soak the privacy in. You could easily be murdered with this level of seclusion, but the fact that you can still hear the bustling sounds of the city and a dog in the neighbor’s yard is reassuring. 

“Totally agree,” Van tells you, jingling his keys, “It’s most of the reason I chose this place. Can sunbathe totally naked and not feel like everyone’s watching me.”

Although Van delivers the joke completely deadpan, you burst into laughter, and in the soft glow of the porch light you can see him smile.

“M’not kidding!” He insists, pointing a finger towards the sky as he gets the door unlocked, letting you in first. “There’s a patio upstairs perfect for getting some sun.”

Inside, his house is decorated eerily similar to the restaurant you’d just been at, with glossy white floors, dark painted walls, and soft lamplight. 

“I’m gonna grab a beer,” Van says as he locks the front door and sets his keys on a small end table that’s covered in unopened mail. “You want anything?”

You think for a moment. “What do you have?”

“No idea, honestly,” Van snorts. He starts walking through the living room and you follow behind. He turns the corner to a dining area that looks pristine and untouched, and around another corner is the kitchen, all windows and clean appliances and glossy countertops. The only indications that anyone’s been in there are the few dirty dishes in the sink, the amazon prime packaging scattered on the kitchen island, and more than one unfinished mug of tea sitting on different surfaces. 

The windows in the kitchen look out into the backyard, where you marvel at the sparkling blue in-ground pool and what looks like a hot tub.

The sound of the fridge opening tears your eyes away from the windows.

“I’ve got, uh,” Van holds the fridge door open wide, the sound of glass clinking as he pulls a bottle of beer from one of the side pockets. “Some Coke, Dr. Pepper, lemonade…” He lets go of the door to pick up a bottle of orange juice, which he inspects carefully. “Some orange juice. Dunno if it’s good, but if you wanted to risk it be my guest.” He offers you a sheepish smile. “Haven’t made it to the shop in forever.”

“Coke’s good,” You tell him, and he sets one of the red cans on the island.

Van shuts the fridge. “Do you want ice?”

“Nah,” You shrug him off, “The can is fine.”

You use the tab to crack open your can while Van rustles through a drawer until he can find a bottle opener, getting his beer open. You two gravitate back to the living room, Van taking a seat on the dark, plush sectional in the center of the room.

He sets his beer down on the coffee table, no coaster in sight, before shucking his shoes off and stretching his long legs across the short end of the L shape. 

Taking your own shoes off buys you a moment of contemplation before you decide to sit down next to where he’s stretched out. There’s no space for you to stretch your legs out, but you’re comfortable folding them up on the couch with you, getting comfortable cross legged while Van procures the remote from somewhere, starting the TV up.

“Look at the moon,” You marvel quietly. The living room features an entire glass wall that leads to an outdoor patio, the moon and stars sending a white shimmering glow over the furniture.

Van doesn’t say anything, but when you turn your head to glance over at him he’s admiring it too before he meets your gaze. He still doesn’t speak, the moment doused in comfortable silence.

“Can I use this?” You ask him suddenly, your hand landing on a folded up blanket a few cushions away. 

“Course.”

You unravel the blanket and lay it over your lap while Van gets Netflix going.

“What do you wanna watch?” He asks when prompted to pick a profile. There are only two on the screen; Van and mary. You smile to yourself at the fact he shares an account with his mom as he clicks his.

“Um,” You look over the options on the screen. “Are you in the middle of anything?”

“Not really. Caught up on just about everything in Ireland.”

Van starts absentmindedly flipping through the trending now category, previews playing automatically.

“Have you seen that?” You ask when he hovers over one of the titles. “I heard it’s supposed to be really, really good.”

Van lets the trailer play out, detailing what looks to be a plot about infatuation and stalking. You can tell you’re both interested by the silence that falls over you.

“Sound good?” Van gets up to switch the lights off. The room is shrouded in darkness, Netflix lighting up his silhouette as he gets settled on the couch again. 

“Yeah,” You nod, “Let’s see if it lives up to the hype.”

You’re all too aware of your proximity to Van as the show starts. You can’t look over at him without him noticing considering it requires you to turn your head, but you can’t help but feel like you can sense his eyes on you. The result is you spending the first half sitting stiff as a board, paralyzed.

But the show lives up to it’s viral social media hype, and you soon become so engrossed that without really realizing it you’ve stretched your legs down the long side of the couch, your head coming to rest on the cushion you had been sitting on. Van passes you one of the throw pillows he’s been hogging, and when you elevate your head you’re so close you can hear his breathing.

The longer you watch, the more convinced you start to become that this date was all an elaborate plan devised by Van to kill you, and that he really did stalk you months ago in San Diego. Your mind wanders for two seconds, contemplating your current position on a stranger’s sofa, and suddenly the plot has taken a twist and the main character is having sex.

It’s almost like watching a sex scene with your parents in the room, although Van is anything but. You cringe as breathy moans ring out through the surround sound and you’re forced to watch a trainwreck of a scene where the the girl is getting fucked, hard, with her windows open, the stalker watching from the bushes across the street. It’s over quick, the character’s on-again-off-again boyfriend leaving as soon as the deed is done, but to your horror the scene only gets worse as the girl starts to hump a throw pillow in compensation for the orgasm she didn’t receive from her boyfriend, all the while the stalker starts jerking off in the bushes.

“Oh God,” You groan, turning your face to bury it in the throw pillow. “I literally can’t watch!”

Van chuckles as you listen to the rest of the scene play out.

“You’re missing it.” You can hear the delight in Van’s voice. “He’s about to blow his load right there on the street.”

“I wanna miss it,” You tell him, but still turn your head to peek at the screen. “Fucking creep.”

The ending of the scene is a crescendo of orgasms and moaning, the actress for the main character really laying it on porn-style for her big finale, while the stalker is abruptly interrupted by an oblivious woman asking him to hold the door, his orgasm incomplete.

“That was fucking creepy,” Van agrees. The episode isn’t done yet, but you can tell neither of you are paying attention to the remaining plot.

“Those windows are freaking me out,” You whine, gesturing to the windows that had previously brought you the view of the night sky, but that you’re now convinced have someone peeping through them.

Van heaves himself off of the couch. Before you can question him he’s crossed the room, pulling giant sheets of blinds down over the windows.

You sigh in relief, but it’s short lived. “But what if you’re the stalker?” You narrow your eyes at Van, who’s looking down at you as he heads back to his seat.

“I’m quite daft, then. Spending all this money on a wine-and-dine when I could’ve been outside your bedroom window for free.”

You make an exaggerated retching noise. Van laughs.

There’s a beat of silence, and then: “Is it really like that?”

You turn your head to peer up at him, propping your chin up on the overstuffed pillow. “Like what?”

“Like she did,” Van gestures towards the screen, “Where you fake it, and then the lad leaves, and you go back at it again.”

You frown as you ponder his question. “I’m sure for some girls it’s not.” Van’s eyes are trained on you, hanging onto your every word. “But as far as I know it usually goes something like that.”

“Pillow humping optional,” You add. “You can use your hand. Personally, I use a vibrator. Or the mood passes and you just go to sleep.”

You don’t know where this burst of boldness to talk about your sex life so openly came from, but Van looks a bit panicked as a result of it.

“And when we…” Van’s voice is low, and you watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, his brows knitting together. “Did you…”

“That was genuine,” You reassure him, watching the relief wash over his face.

Van makes a noise in the back of his throat. “But you have? Before?”

“Faked it?”

Van nods.

It’s your turn to swallow. “Yeah. I have. Not with you. But yeah.”

“How, though?” Van scratches the back of his neck. “Y’know when you watch porn or somethin’ like that, you can tell they’re playing it up.”

You can feel a mischievous smile stretching across your face. “You sound curious.”

“I mean, kinda, yeah. And it’d be good to know. So you can’t fool me.” He offers a sheepish smile at his own joke.

“That would imply you need fooling,” You point out, your voice quiet. There’s no real need to whisper, but the heavy feeling of attraction that’s suddenly pressing down on you keeps you from speaking full volume, especially considering your proximity to Van.

Van doesn’t speak, only holds your gaze. He’s got the same look in his eye that he did outside of the hotel that night when he was openly checking you out. You do your best to match it, your mind quickly wrapping around a plan. Now was as good a time as any other to make your move.

“Well, I mean,” You break his gaze, looking around the room instead. “It ruins the magic if you know it’s fake.” You give an exaggerated sigh. “But for you, I’ll make an exception.”

You sit yourself upright, Van carefully watching your every move.

“We gotta set the scene, though,” You tell him, standing up from the couch and wriggling your pants down your legs. “Get yours off too,” You tell him.

Van doesn’t question it, getting down to his briefs and peeling off his socks after he watches you take off your own. 

You originally planned to keep your shirt on, to leave something to Van’s imagination, but you catch him admiring your black lace underwear and can’t resist revealing the rest of the matching set.

“Just want it to feel as real as possible,” You’re as nonchalant as possible, your voice the only sound in the quiet room. You realize then that Van’s muted the TV.

“Right,” Van agrees, fumbling with the buttons lining the front of his shirt. There’s no other layers underneath, so he’s shirtless in no time. “Now what?”

You pretend to think about it only to drag his anticipation out a few moments longer. While you torment him your eyes drag up and down his body, drinking in the familiar sight.

“Say we’re doing something like this,” You murmur, stepping over to where he’s still stretched out. You slide a leg over his waist, and with the soft slide of skin and fabric you’re settled on his lap, mimicking a riding position. He’s hard in his underwear, pressing against you through the cotton of his underwear and the lace of yours. 

“Like I’m riding you,” You clarify, shifting in Van’s lap. You feel him tense up beneath you.

“Put your hands here,” You prompt him, gently grabbing his wrists and bringing them to rest on your sides. His hands feel hesitant to make contact with you at first, but at your encouragement he holds onto your sides firmly.

“Now, the first step is build up.” Your voice stays low, like you’re trading secrets with him. “It’s not gonna be realistic without warning. Gotta spend some time doing something like this…” Without further ado you’re grinding against him through your underwear, his fingertips pressing into your flesh. 

It’s been way too long since you’ve had the experience of feeling someone’s solid, warm body beneath you, since you’ve felt someone want you so bad. Your first couple of breathy moans don’t even feel fake as you relish in the warm friction, losing control for a beat when your hips jerk on their own accord. “Van, fuck.”

His fingers squeeze you.

“Yeah, like that.” You piggyback off of his enthusiasm. You let your hips apply more pressure to his, but as good as it feels there’s no dry humping that could soothe your ache. Van doesn’t have to know that, though, and you let another desperate sounding noise come up from the back of your throat. Van’s thighs twitch beneath you.

You had been holding onto Van’s waist to balance yourself, but suddenly you move one of your palms to his side and feel him jolt. You look at him then, your face contorting into a look of mild surprise.

“I’m close.” You say it as if you were caught off guard. Van looks like an even mix of seduced and stunned, and the way he’s looking at you makes you close your eyes, scrunch your face up. “I’m, uh,” You pant, “I’m gonna-”

Before you can get to the grand finale your body is knocked off balance, suddenly becoming pressed into the soft cushions. 

“Fucking stop,” Van sounds pained as he kisses you, hard. Your body melts into the couch, the sweet and rare feeling of a plan going perfectly warming your body from the inside out. You moan into the kiss.

“I take it back,” He tells you before another bruising kiss. “I don’t wanna know what it sounds like.”

“How are you gonna know?” You push out between genuine gasps for air as Van starts kissing your neck. You arch into it.

“Tell me the truth,” He begs, resting his forehead against your shoulder. You can feel how clammy he is. “Please. Save that stuff for someone else. Tell me the truth.”

You don’t respond, silence in the air as you both catch your breath.

“I’ve got no use for sex that sounds straight out of a porno.” Van lifts his head, and you flinch at the intensity in his eyes. “I’d rather it be fucking real. No bullshit. If you’re having a good time, sure, say it. But if you’re not, say that too.”

It’s a rather serious take on something you’d thought was lighthearted. You’d never thought twice about faking orgasms. As far as you knew it was quite customary. You’d always figured the amount of times you’d done it had been on the lighter side, too. It’s not like you’d never had one, a fate some women seemed doomed to. But the way Van’s looking at you gives a sudden gravity to your actions.

“No bullshit,” You say firmly. You unwedge one of your hands from where it’s been pressed into the crack of the sofa, and offer Van your pinky.

Van’s intensity breaks as he smiles at the gesture. There’s a shift in his weight before he can get a hand free to loop his pinky finger with yours. “No bullshit.”

Then he’s kissing you again, your head forced back against the cushions of the couch, paralyzed between the furniture and his body. He tastes like the beer he’s been drinking and the butter he’d drenched his lobster in. It should be a bad combination, but it’s so uniquely Van you can’t complain. Not to mention he’s still at the top of your makeout leaderboard, a realization that brings your fingers into his hair.

“Show me your room,” You tell him when you break apart for air.

“It’s two floors up,” Van groans. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” You laugh at his hesitation to roll off of you.

“There’s a guest bedroom right there.” Van nods toward the end of the hall past the front door.

You consider for a moment. “With windows?” You ask finally. When Van nods, you crinkle your nose in distaste.

“Your room,” You insist, and he finally climbs off of you. As he clicks the TV off you make the sudden decision to grab for the throw blanket you’d been using, wrapping it around your body as if it was a towel.

“What?” You ask when you notice him staring at you in amusement. “It’s fucking cold in here. Don’t suppose you want me to put more clothes on.”

“Deffo not,” Van agrees, and leads the trek up the stairs.

Van’s bedroom is average size, a fact which catches you off guard. You hadn’t known what to expect based on the rest of the house, but besides the giant glass windows that panel the wall the bed faces (which Van covers immediately), and the luxurious attached bathroom, his room is quite ordinary. There’s a suitcase resting open on the floor, and Van has to move an acoustic guitar that was resting on the bed, but otherwise things seem clean. There’s an overfilled hamper in the corner, but you were pleased he owned a hamper at all. 

As soon as the guitar is moved you join Van in getting under the covers, shedding your makeshift robe on the floor. The transition back into making out is seamless.

“I can show you for real,” You whisper, surprised to find your bold streak hasn’t run out.

Van makes what sounds like a confused noise in the back of his throat, his lips consumed with being pressed against yours, but as soon as you hook a leg over his waist and start shifting him onto his back he gets the hint.

“You want me to?” You ask him softly, although you’ve got a good feeling you already know the answer. 

“Shit,” Van hisses when you slip a hand into his underwear, easing his dick out. “Yeah.”

It’s your first time getting a hand around him properly, and you relish in the weight of him against your palm, the way the head of him is already swollen, peeking out of his foreskin. You give him a few experimental tugs, only to be encouraged by a groan. As much as you want to continue, his briefs are getting in the way.

There’s a bit of clamoring while you two undress fully, but it doesn’t dampen the mood in the slightest. 

“That’s better,” You murmur when you’re seated back on his thighs, hand wrapped around him again. You know you should stop, considering you’ve been teasing him for a while already, but the control you’ve got over him is too intoxicating, watching him clench and groan as you experiment with different strokes.

“Where do you keep the condoms?” You ask after keeping the pace with relentless, quick tugs until you felt like he was ready. The only sound in the room is the soft noise of his foreskin sliding over him, but it feels like it echoes.

“There,” Van pants, throwing his arm in a gesture towards one of the bedside tables. You shift slightly off of his lap, your clit pressing against the soft skin of his hip while you dig through the top drawer. The only light in the room is from the soft glow of the city against the blinds, but it’s just enough for you to be able to locate a foil packet before handing it off to Van.

After the ripping of the wrapper, the room falls silent except for the harsh noise of breathing. Van’s hands bump against you clumsily while he gets himself wrapped, and you try to match your breathing to his slow, deep breaths. You sound more worked up than him, your anxiety making your breaths shallow and harsh.

Van brushes one of his hands against your thigh while he withdraws his hands, signaling he’s done.

This time when you slip a hand around him you’re gentle, careful not to disturb the thin layer of latex you can feel stretched over him. “Ready?”

You’re already shifting into position, rearing up onto your knees and maneuvering above him. Waiting for the green light.

“Yeah,” Van chuckles. “Let’s have it.”

The room goes quiet again, Van waiting with baited breath as you position him. You swallow hard, trying to soothe the fluttering in your stomach as you start to lower down on him.

It’s unceremonious, a hushed and slow process. There’s no dramatic sinking down like there is in porn, no loud screams of pleasure. It’s a slow stretch as your body accommodates him, an active effort to keep your balance as you make small shifts to try different angles. There’s the occasional sharp breath, but you’re not sure if it’s from Van or if you’re doing it without meaning to.

There’s a collective sigh of relief when you’re fully seated, your thighs trembling against his from the stretch. You’re terribly out of practice with this, and you’re mentally kicking your past self for her confidence while your anxiety starts to prepare you for Van’s disappointment. 

Your nerves and self-consciousness mix together to form a hot flush on your face, one you’re grateful Van can’t see. You make a last-ditch effort for a deep breath before you shift your hips, preparing to proceed.

You’d forgotten how good this was. Or maybe it wasn’t actually ever this good; maybe it’s just Van. But as soon as you get a pace going any nerves melt away, replaced instead with electricity that buzzes down your spine, through your hips. It zings it’s way across your thighs, making any discomfort worth it as you make sure to lower yourself completely every single time, feeling yourself fill up.

Van’s got a white knuckle grip on the sheets, but you’re barely noticing his reactions. It’s like you’re possessed, your body moving without your control as you chase the feeling. What feeling exactly, you’re not sure; there’s the friction of him sliding in and out of you, the feeling of fullness that punches you in the gut every time you lower down, and the white-hot spots you can get him to hit depending on the angle. They all mix together, heat and tingling and sparks that have you hunched over, hands pressed into his chest, your hips erratic.

Your thighs start to fail you, and when the ache becomes unbearable you settle for staying seated, keeping him fully inside of you as you shift around, feeling him rub against your walls. You clench experimentally, just to see if there’s a way to get him deeper, closer.

You’re only jolted from your own thoughts at the sound of Van moaning. It’s loud, the volume paired with the vulnerability of the sound startling you. 

You look down at him then. He’s got his forearm thrown over his eyes, and his hair’s a mess against the mattress, having pushed the pillows awry without you noticing. His mouth opens, lips forming a silent shape before he finally chokes the word out: “Stop.”

His other hand is pressed against your thigh, although you don’t remember it being there. His fingers dig into your skin. “Stop,” He says again, voice strained.

Your hips slow, any pleasure in your entire body fizzling away in half of a second. Your self consciousness comes crashing down over you in one suffocating wave as you hold completely still, confused.

You must’ve fucked up. Must’ve read the situation wrong, not realized that Van wasn’t into it. Must’ve heard his moan wrong. Must’ve missed something important. You feel the sweat that’d been developing on your forehead go cold as you mentally search for your fatal mistake. 

“Is something wrong?” You ask hesitantly. You’re still frozen, careful not to move a muscle while you await Van’s response.

“No,” Van chokes out. He lifts his arm from where it’s obscuring his face, running his hand through his hair instead. You can see his bicep flex as he pulls his own hair by the crown of his head. “You’re incredible, fuck. I can’t fucking stand this anymore. Switch me.”

His praise delivers an instant wave of relief, one that has you beaming down at him. He returns the smile weakly as you unseat yourself, plopping down on the soft mattress while he scrambles into the new position. 

“Scared the shit out of me.” You don’t know why you admit it. Maybe your brain is too foggy for censors. “Thought I was doing horrible.”

“Nah, fuck that.” Van’s lining up again. “Could just feel you getting tired. Figured I could return the favor.”

He takes your cue from the way you open your thighs wider, shift your hips up to meet him. He slides in easily, and as the shock of the interruption fades away you can feel your orgasm coming back to the surface, just as strong as it’d been previously.

Van takes his favor-returning duties seriously, fucking you with all he’s got. It’s different from last time. You’ve already set the rules and he follows them meticulously: sudden thrusts in, followed by a torturous pause so you can fully appreciate him inside of you before a long, slow withdraw where you can feel every inch of him. It’s too much and not enough at the same time, and when you’re on the brink you haul him in with a hand on his jaw for a kiss, gasping for air against his open mouth.

Van comes first despite his heroic efforts to hold off. Your only warning is a few moments of loose hips before he’s cursing, his hand slapping the headboard as he clenches it, exhaling your name.

Your only response is to kiss him. His lips are soft and pliant, moving easily against yours now that any tension has leaked out of his body, and you slip a hand between your bodies, desperate to feel as relaxed as him.

“Don’t,” Van slurs. Your fingers had already started tight circles against your clit, but Van bumps your hand away. “Quit, lemme.”

“I can do it,” You huff, your desperation putting you on edge.

“I know you can.” You can hear the amusement in Van’s voice as he pulls out and ties off the condom, leaning over to deposit it in a trash can you didn’t know existed. “But m’not inept either.”

After another impatient huff from you, Van’s fingertips are pressed tight against your clit, working it in loose circles. He doesn’t linger too low and you’re grateful for that, already feeling the tenderness start to catch up to you. He’s careful and precise, hanging onto your every noise as he tries to get it right, and when he succeeds you reward him by calling out his name over, and over, and over.

To your surprise, you open your eyes to Van sticking the fingers he’d touched you with into his mouth without any hesitation. 

Your eyes feel like they’re about to bug out of your head. “Why are you doing that?”

There’s a wet noise as Van’s lips release his fingers. “Needed to clean ‘em off.”

“You could’ve asked me to pass you something. The blanket’s right here.” You reach to the floor and grab the soft fabric, showing it to him for emphasis.

Van just looks at you quizzically, cocking his head. “Why would I wipe off on a blanket?”

“I just, y’know,” You flounder for an explanation, especially under Van’s gaze. “If you’re not into the taste, or something. I dunno.”

Van shrugs. “Into your taste just fine.”

You can’t keep the surprise off of your face. “Oh. Alright.”

“I’ll have to show you next time,” Van says with a joking wink before getting up, heading for the bathroom.

As soon as he’s turned his back you bury your face in nearest pillow, beaming into it. Next time. 

You sit up straight when you hear the toilet flush, regaining your composure. 

When Van comes back into the bedroom he immediately grabs for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter resting on the bedside table. He offers you the box, but this time you shake your head.

“Let’s see how these sheets look,” He says, cigarette bobbing loosely between his lips as he makes the few strides to the bedroom door, lifting the dimmer and illuminating the room.

It feels out of place to be naked with the lights on, and you reach over and grab the throw blanket off of the floor, wrapping it around yourself again as you stand to take your turn using the bathroom. You examine the sheets with Van, and they look no worse for wear except for a slight wet spot marking the spot on the bed where you’d came.

“Just that bit,” You acknowledge, gesturing to the spot. “Sorry.”

Van pulls the cigarette from his mouth, rolling his eyes playfully as he exhales smoke. “It’s nothin’. It’ll be dry in a few seconds. Go freshen up, love.”

Your cheeks heat up at the nickname, and you head for the en suite so Van doesn’t see.

“Do you need anything from downstairs?” You ask after you’ve taken your customary after-sex pee. “I gotta go get my clothes.”

Van’s perched on the remade bed, finishing off his cigarette in only his briefs. “You’re gonna put your clothes back on?”

“I mean, I gotta wear clothes in the Uber,” You joke.

“You don’t have to Uber home,” Van says, ashing the butt of his cigarette out in an ashtray. “I was gonna make us a fry up tomorrow.”

His britishness catches you off guard, and you laugh. “I have no idea what that is.”

“Oh, no way. It’s a big breakfast!” He gestures with his hands, “Eggs, bacon, sausage, the whole works! It’s fucking class. What d’ya say?”

You hold up your hands in playful surrender, even though it causes your blanket to sag. “I was only leaving because I didn’t know what you had going on! But that sounds good.”

You try not to read too much into how pleased Van looks at your agreement to stay.

“But I’ve still gotta go downstairs and get my bag,” You tell him, “So do you still need anything?”

“I’ll go with ya.” Van lights his second cigarette. “Could use a cup of tea.”

You two return to the mess you’ve made of the living room; throw pillows smushed from being under your bodies, clothes strewn on the floor, drinks lukewarm on the table now. Van takes your can of Coke and his empty beer bottle around the corner into the kitchen, while you gather up your clothes and purse before following him.

“Ugh, ready to take these things out,” You complain, fishing through your bag for the contact case you’d packed. You hadn’t wanted to assume Van would want you to stay over, but it was always best to be prepared.

“Take what out?” Van mumbles, turning to look at you from where he was standing over the stove babysitting a tea kettle.

“My contacts.” You open the case up on the island, not bothering to wash your hands before getting the dry lenses out easily with your finger, depositing them in the fresh solution you’d been sure to fill the case with. Van watches the whole spectacle curiously.

Even though your vision is blurry once you’re done sealing the case and putting it back in your bag, you can still see Van’s smirk.

“What?”

“Nothin’,” Van sing-songs, his voice going up an octave. “Seems like you came pretty prepared, s’all.”

You scoff. “I take a contact case with me everywhere, thank you very much,” You lie.

Van snorts. “With the liquid already in it?”

You blanch, caught. Van laughs in delight.

“Oh, shut up,” You huff. “How about you tell me about that breakfast you already planned for us, huh?” You make your way around the island to him, gently jabbing him in the stomach. He pokes you back. It’s tit-for-tat until you’re both laughing, interrupted only by the tea kettle coming to a boil.

By the time you’re back upstairs, Van nursing a warm mug of tea, your post-orgasm exhaustion is at its peak. It had taken all your strength to climb the two flights of stairs, and you don’t think twice about crawling into bed wearing only your underwear until you hear Van fussing with the closet door.

“Here,” He takes a plain black t-shirt off of a hanger, tossing it to you. You accept it graciously, slipping it on before tucking yourself under the sheets, eyelids heavy.

When Van slides into bed next to you he doesn’t seem ready to sleep, picking up his mug of tea instead.

“Jet lagged?” You ask, peering up at him from your spot nestled in his blankets. Everything smells deliciously like him, and you have to actively resist the urge to look like a creep that sniffs everything.

“Kinda,” Van smiles down at you. “Don’t sleep much in general, though. Always been quite hyper.”

His declaration doesn’t surprise you. Considering all the fidgeting, humming, toe-tapping, and fingertip drumming he seems to be doing every moment, you have no doubts about his boundless energy. 

“Hm,” You murmur, yawning. “Well, lucky you.” You pat his leg under the blankets before flipping over.

You can’t help but imagine what it might be like to actually see Van tired. What it might be like for him to lay with you in bed, your body wrapped around his. With that on your mind, you doze off quick.

\\

You’re disoriented when you open your eyes, expecting to be in your own bedroom. Instead you’re greeted by the bright L.A. sunlight, the shades pulled across the window seemingly useless in filtering it out.

Van’s not in bed. There’s his mug from last night on the nightstand, and the blankets and pillows are ruffled, but the bathroom is clearly empty.

You’d totally forgotten to ask him for a phone charger last night, something you only remember when you go to check the time only to be greeted with an unresponsive screen. 

You decide to climb out of bed and see if Van’s actually following through on his promise of breakfast. It’s foreign to you, wandering around a stranger’s house. You’re usually the type to roll back over and go to sleep until you know for sure other people are awake. You’ve never been the one to make yourself at home, using the kitchen or the television without permission. But considering Van doesn’t seem the type to head back to bed, this seemed like your best bet.

Midway down the first staircase you realize that you don’t have pants on. You could head back upstairs and grab your clothes but decide against it, praying Van’s not the type to have company at this time.

Thankfully Van’s right where you anticipated. You hear his singing ringing out through the living area before you’ve even turned the corner to the kitchen, along with the clatter of pots and pans. The acoustic guitar that had been resting on the bed last night is propped against the coffee table now. He must’ve been up for a while now.

“Hey,” You say softly when you round the corner. It’s only for Van’s benefit, so he’s not startled by your presence, but he doesn’t miss a beat in the song he’s singing, only grinning at you as he continues. You smile to yourself when his back is turned. Of course he’s not one to scare easily.

He’s definitely been to sleep, considering his pillow-mussed hair and the fact he’s still only in his underwear. You admire the way the muscles in his back flex as he scours through the fridge, procuring ingredients.

“What time is it?” You ask, peering around for any sort of microwave or oven clock.

“Half nine,” Van chirps, bumping the fridge door closed with his hip, a carton of eggs and a frozen pack of bacon in his hands.

“Oh.” You intertwine your fingers together. “So, uh. Is that, like, eight-thirty or nine-thirty…?”

“Nine-thirty,” Van elaborates. He glances at you over his shoulder from his position at the counter. “Do you not say that here?”

“I’ve never heard it,” You shrug. Van nods as he processes your answer.

“So, what are you making again?” You stop leaning on the island in favor of approaching the counter, looking over the various foods sitting out. “A stir fry?”

“Well, about that…” Van says sheepishly, opening the carton of eggs. “I was gonna do a whole fry up, but like I said, I haven’t been to the shops in forever. So how do you feel about just eggs, bacon, toast?”

“Sounds lovely,” You tell him, continuing to hover around him.

Van cracks whatever eggs are left in the carton into a mixing bowl, leaving the eggshells in the nearby sink.

“Do you need any help?” You ask, feeling terribly annoying while you just watch.

“Nah.” Van shrugs you off. “Just keep me company.”

“I’ll sit down, then, instead of being in your personal space.”

“You’re gonna sit all the way over there?” Van whines when you tug one of the island stools out to sit on.

“There’s no other place to sit!” You exclaim.

“Right here,” Van slaps his palm down on the counter.

“I don’t have pants on!” You insist. “I’m not gonna put my bare ass on your kitchen counters.”

“I need you over here!” Van argues. “I need someone to help supervise!”

“Then how about I pull the stool closer?” You start to drag your seat over the tile floor.

“Then it’ll just be in the way. Come sit up here and talk to me.”

You pretend to be inconvenienced by his request, sighing as you hoist yourself up on a section of counter not currently being used to prepare food. The marble is cold against the back of your thighs, and you cringe.

You watch Van diligently mix the eggs with some milk using a whisk. With the way his head’s bent, you can see how crooked the part of his hair has become from sleep.

“C’mere,” You gesture. Van looks up from what he’s doing.

“Your hair is driving me nuts,” You elaborate. When he’s looking up at you it’s even more unruly.

Van abandons the mixing bowl, setting it aside in favor of coming to stand in front of you. 

“You don’t like my morning hair?” He teases. He lets you maneuver the angle of his head and stands there patiently as you start to pick at the strands.

“Love it,” You assure him, “But if I’m going to supervise I’ve got to make sure you look presentable.” Once his part is sitting correctly you comb your fingers through the ends, managing to get about half of them to lay uniformly. It’s an improvement. You pat his shoulder, satisfied.

When he looks up at you, your faces are awkwardly close.

“Thanks,” Van murmurs, and you watch the way his eyes dart down to your lips before flickering back up. Your hand still hasn’t left his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Is all you manage to say, any witty or funny remarks disintegrating on your tongue. You wait for an interruption, for Van to jerk away and remember the food he needs to tend to. But he doesn’t.

His lips press into yours instead. It’s the first time you guys have kissed without an impending sense of urgency. Van brings his hands up to rest on your waist, his fingertips fidgeting with the hem of your borrowed shirt. You sling your arms around his neck, tugging him closer, savoring every moment.

You spread your knees apart, making space for him to fit his hips between them, pleased to get him even closer.

Van pulls away to breathe and you rest your head on his shoulder, trying to hide your smile. It occurs to you when you turn your face and admire the long lines of his neck that you’ve never paid much attention to it. 

You can feel Van melting into your arms as you start at his shoulder and mouthe your way up. You don’t intend to leave any marks, but that doesn’t stop you from letting your teeth graze him a couple times so you can hear the way he sucks the air through his teeth at the feeling. You can feel his pulse right at his jaw, and you press your lips there firmly for a moment, marveling at how his pulse skitters against his skin.

“Christ,” Van murmurs. Your lips curve into a smile where they’re pressed against him.

You’d planned to be done at his jaw, but curiosity gets the better of you and you let your lips travel higher, trying to feel for his pulse behind his ear. The ends of his hair tickle your nose as you search for it, but feeling his heart stutter again is worth it.

When Van can’t take anymore he turns his head, bringing his lips to yours. Your hand comes to rest on the side of the neck and you don’t know if you’re imagining it but Van seems to lean into it. You tense your fingertips, digging them into his skin just slightly, experimentally, and Van deepens the kiss. 

You make a small, satisfied noise as you break away from him. “You don’t happen to keep condoms in your kitchen, do you?”

You’d been feeling Van get hard the entire time, but when he pulls away you marvel at how terrible he is at concealing his desire; his pupils are blown, there’s a fresh flush to his cheeks, and his chest is visibly rising with every breath.

“I don’t, no,” He runs his hand through his hair, successfully reversing your attempts to make him look presentable. “I’ll go grab one from my wallet.”

“Hurry,” You urge him, pleased at how quickly he turns to leave the kitchen. He’s still just as handsome from behind, and you marvel at how his briefs hug his ass before he spins, catching you.

“Stop ogling at me!” He teases. You stick your tongue out at him.

With Van gone, it’s just you and the abandoned mixing bowl of eggs alone in the kitchen. You take a deep breath, kick your legs out from the counter awkwardly, and count the seconds until he returns, condom in hand.

“Okay,” He sets the condom down on the counter, and loops his fingers into the waistband of your underwear. “Hips up,” He quips.

You obey, pressing your palms flat against the counter so you can get your hips into the air and Van can get your underwear down. Van tugs his own briefs down his legs easily, kicking them away. You watch them slide across the kitchen tile.

Van opens the condom, giving himself a few quick tugs in preparation to roll it on. At the sight of him you swallow nervously, the visual reminder bringing the ache between your legs to the forefront of your attention.

“Go easy on me, okay?” You laugh, but the slight waver of your voice betrays your nerves. Van’s too smart for any sugarcoating. His blue eyes snap up to meet your gaze, all seriousness, a silent questioning.

You give him a slight smile, crinkling your nose. “I’m sore.”

Realization dawns over him. “Gotcha,” He nods.

Van positions himself between your knees, using his hands on your hips to gently guide you to the edge of the counter.

“I feel like I’m gonna fall off,” You whine. Van only smiles, still looking down at your bodies.

“I need you right here at the edge,” He explains, letting go of you when he’s satisfied. 

“You sound like an expert.” It’s a dangerous joke to make, something twisting at your stomach at the sudden thought of other girls having this same kind of morning with Van.

“Not even fucking close,” He assures you, and your stomach unknots.

He works on lining himself up, but you can tell the way your body is curved in order to have your arms wrapped around his shoulders is making an odd angle that’ll be uncomfortable. 

“Don’t go yet,” You plead, suddenly desperate to try a different position. He stills, his eyes flickering to yours.

“This angle isn’t gonna work,” You answer his unspoken question. “I think I need to…” 

You don’t finish the rest of your sentence, opting to carefully lean back instead. You have to bend your neck to fit under the cabinet, and push a knife block a little off to the side, but eventually your shoulders come to rest on the cool tile of the wall. It’s uncomfortable, to say the least, but it allows your hips to tilt back. Your hands grapple for the most comfortable way to keep yourself from slipping off of the edge of the marble.

Van looks amused. “You good?”

You nod.

“We don’t have to do it in here you know,” He gestures with his hand towards the exit to the kitchen. “I can lay you out on the couch or somethin’.”

“In here’s fine,” You insist. You’d never had kitchen sex before, and your curiosity about the experience was stronger than the ache in your neck. 

Van playfully throws his hands up in surrender. “Okay then,” He laughs, before positioning your hips again and lining himself up for the second time. “You ready, then?”

With your eager nod Van slides in. He goes slow, his brow furrowed. You can tell he’s taking your request to be gentle to heart.

He’s careful not to bottom out, and from your position sitting back can see the restraint he’s exercising, how tight and rigid his body stays while he starts thrusting, shallow, slow.

It aches but only slightly, and it’s an incredible reminder of last night. Your hands scrabble against the countertop, desperate for anything to hold on to. They find nothing. There’s nothing you can do except hold as still as possible to keep your balance.

Van’s an absolute vision, the morning sun beaming through through the kitchen and making him glow. You watch the sweat glisten on his chest, the way he looks like he’s so lost in you he wants to close his eyes. He seems determined to keep them open, watching your every expression. You can see the muscles in his stomach flex with each movement, the angle of the sunlight creating a tiny shadow near his bellybutton. It’s too much. You close your eyes.

That only makes it worse, though, only forces you to focus solely on how the movement of him against you feels. You’re forced to lay there, completely still, the image of Van burned behind your eyelids. The pleasure is making you feel like you’re about to crawl out of your skin, and not having an outlet is driving you nuts. You slap your sweaty palm against the countertop. Van doesn’t even flinch.

“Holy shit,” You gasp, tipping your head back against the cool tile, finally opening your eyes to the bottom of the wooden cabinet. “I can’t fucking take this anymore,” You heave.

Van’s forced to stop thrusting when you manage to get your legs around his waist, bringing his hips flush against yours as you work your way back into the sitting position you were originally in before you had the idea to sit back. There’s the uncomfortable tickle in your stomach as the angle changes, and you hope things will work this way. At this point, anything feels better than laying there helplessly.

“Sorry,” You breathe, back to wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him in for a sloppy yet gratifying kiss.

“Don’t be,” Van brings your lips together again. He’s got he slightest bit of stubble growing. It’s too light to be visible, but you feel the slight scratch of it against your lips and bring your palm up to rub your thumb over his jawline, feeling the hairs.

You keep your legs around Van’s waist but relax them enough so that he’s got room to move. He takes it as an invitation, starting to fuck into you again, and makes a noise low in his throat. You can’t decipher if it’s from pleasure or discomfort, but it sounds urgent. 

“Okay?” You ask, craning your neck away from where you’d been examining his freckles in extreme detail, getting a full view of his face instead.

“Yeah.”

You raise your eyebrows at how strained his voice sounds.

Van runs his hand through his hair, the strands that hang near his forehead damp with sweat.

You’ve stopped watching his face, your eyes instead wandering to the top of his shoulder, the little freckles that pepper him there. You only see his expression out of your peripheral vision when he finally speaks, his voice low: “It’s fucking tight.”

He sounded hesitant to say it, as if worried you’d take offence, but instead you lean over to start kissing the freckles on his shoulder you’d just longingly gazed at. Your stomach lights up at the way he sounded, vulnerable and maybe shy, different from the ever-confident Van you’re used to. You hide your smile in his neck and breathe in his scent while you’re there.

You could already tell you wouldn’t be able to come in this new position, last night’s ache becoming slightly too pronounced, but you were more than happy to let Van keep going. You spend the time alternating between kissing him deeply and kissing his neck, and letting your hands wander over any bit of his skin you can reach. An orgasm almost sneaks up on you, your thighs tensing of their own accord, but Van gets there first. It’s the quietest he’s ever been, shaking through it breathlessly, head pressed into your neck, your fingers still playing with the ends of his hair, which looks almost blonde in the morning sun.

Van catches your cringe as he pulls out.

“Did it hurt?” He asks, voice rough.

“Nothing serious,” You assure him. “It was worth it.”

He ties the condom off and opens one of the cupboard doors below you, leaning over to deposit it in the trash.

It takes a second for your head to wrap around the way he sinks to his knees suddenly.

“What are you doing?” You sound more frantic than you’d meant to.

“You’re sensitive, yeah?” Van raises his eyebrows at you for confirmation. You nod, stunned to silence.

“This is about as gentle as it gets,” He shrugs. “As long as you’re good with it?”

“Um, yeah,” You stammer. “You could give it a try.”

It’s hard to form words correctly when Van’s face is right between your legs, looking at you in all your after-sex glory. You have to actively resist the urge to squirm away and cover yourself, your cheeks heating in self-consciousness.

If Van notices your discomfort he doesn’t show it, only looking pleased that you’ve given him permission.

You can’t stand watching him lean forward, opting instead to tip your head back towards the ceiling and squeeze your eyes shut, waiting for him to begin.

You tense up when you feel it. Van’s warm breath tickles you before you feel the wet slide of his tongue against you. You jolt. He gives a few more experimental licks, slow and languid, moving around, and your fingers tangle in his hair instinctually.

It’s not that you don’t want it. It’d be a lie to say you’ve never thought back on that night in San Diego and wondered absentmindedly about things taking a different turn in his hotel room. Your sleepy mind curiously twisting the events, wondering if he’d be any good at this.

But as curious as you were, the thing about head is it always just seemed to be a grand waste of time for you. On the very few occasions you’d been on the receiving end, the act had consisted of slimy, uncomfortable exploration with movements too inconsistent to get you anywhere. And worse, it was treated as a gift, one you were inevitably supposed to return. The lackluster results along with the heavy implications meant you tended to keep your distance.

But after some exploration Van seems locked in on his mission. You dare to peer down at him when you feel him start to find a rhythm, one that has your legs opening wider without your control. His eyes are squeezed shut, his nose brushing against you with every lick, and when he exhales hot air you can’t help but shiver.

You let go of his hair, your knuckles aching from your tight grip, but Van makes a noise. It’s too quiet for you to hear, but you jerk as you feel the vibrations against you, the message loud and clear. You rush to grab his hair again, flustered.

The better it starts to feel the more apparent it becomes that he’s in the wrong spot, a different area starting to throb for his attention. Without really thinking about it you use his hair to herd him to the other spot. He’s just licked firmly against it, your legs quivering, when he sits back on his knees.

“Done?” You ask, surprised to hear disappointment in your tone.

“Nah,” Van wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Need a breath.” 

Your shoulders sag with a relief you didn’t know you felt.

“How is it?” He croaks, peering up at you.

“Good,” You answer out of habit, before realizing how true it is. “Really, really good.”

“You like the spot I was in?” He inquires, gearing up to keep going. The way he sets his jaw in determination makes your mouth go dry.

“The one higher up,” You clarify, your voice only slightly above a whisper. “Yeah.”

And without further ado he’s back at it, resuming in exactly the same spot, a miracle that leaves you speechless.

There’s nothing unexpected about your orgasm. It’s a steady build, the pressure between your legs becoming more and more unbearable as Van’s tongue works firmly against you. He incorporates his lips in some mysterious way you’ve never experienced, and uses his palms to press your thighs open when you’re too clenched to keep them open yourself. He’s eager to please, treating any noises you let slip as feedback. You moan his name as praise and Van preens under the attention.

It’s a long descent back to Earth, your head spinning when it’s all over. The first thing you realize is that you’re awkwardly petting Van’s hair, smoothing your palms over the strands subconsciously. You pull your hands away as Van leans back, catching his breath.

“Sorry,” You murmur.

“Hm?” Van busies himself wiping his mouth. You can see his chin glistening from you.

Your head’s too foggy to clearly remember why you even said sorry, let alone explain it to Van. “I dunno,” You say instead.

“Can you pass me one of those?” Van asks, gesturing to a roll of paper towel that’s within arm’s reach of you. You rip away a few squares for him and pass them over.

“That went better than expected,” You confess breathlessly.

“Yeah?” Van cocks his head, looking amused. “Thought I wouldn’t be any good?”

“Not at all! I mean- that’s not what I meant,” You giggle, trying to find the right words somewhere in your haze. “I’m just surprised I came. It’s never happened from that.”

Van blinks at you. “No shit?”

“Yeah, I’ve never. Until now. But I don’t really let anyone do that. Swore it off a few years ago.”

“But you let me?”

“I mean, yeah,” You shrug. “I’ve never had anyone, like, want to. I’m not gonna beg for something useless.”

“Never had anyone want to?” Van looks stunned as he uses the edge of the counter to help himself off of his knees. “Who the fuck have you been with?”

It sounds hypothetical, so you don’t answer. Van shakes his head to himself as he leans over, washing his hands in the sink.

“We’ll have to do it again sometime. Properly. That angle was kind of shit.”

You smile. “I mean, I thought it was pretty nice.”

Van smiles too, sliding down the counter so he’s in front of you. He leans in for a kiss, and even though you can taste yourself on his lips you let him. 

“It can be better. You just gotta gimme another chance,” He says playfully when you two separate. 

He’s joking, but you can hear he’s being genuine underneath.

“I mean, if you want,” You shrug, indifferent.

“Oh, I want,” He assures you with a wink. “Anyway, are you still hungry?”

“I’m starving,” You groan. “But I really need to rinse off, if you don’t mind.”

“Course I don’t mind. I’ll set you up in the bathroom and then get breakfast going for real this time.”

He reaches down for his discarded briefs, slipping them on before leading you back up to his bedroom, getting the shower in the en suite going for you. 

Once you’re done showering, smelling like all of Van’s products and wrapped in a giant, fluffy towel, you slip out of the bathroom and into Van’s room. You perch on the edge of his bed, reaching for your phone which has finally powered on with the help of a borrowed charger.

There’s a ton of texts from Mary, her curiosity growing the longer you haven’t responded. You listen closely for any sign of Van, but there’s silence. He’s still in the kitchen working on breakfast. You dial Mary’s number.

“Holy shit, finally!” Mary exclaims down the line. “How was last night?”

“I’m um,” You keep your voice low, still paranoid Van might come upstairs to check on you at any moment. “I’m still here.”

“No fucking way,” Mary hisses. “You stayed the night?”

“Yeah. But hey, listen, I don’t have too long, he’s making breakfast-”

“Breakfast?” Mary interrupts. “Like, what kind of breakfast? He can microwave oatmeal?”

You snort. “No, like a real breakfast! Eggs and stuff.”

“Shut the fuck up. I knew he was perfect the first night we met him!”

“Mary, listen!” You hiss. “I gotta tell you about what just happened!”

“This is gonna be good.”

“Oh, it’s better than good. He’s, like… Wow.”

\\

Read Chapter 3 here

[sunriserose1023]

Cracks in the Foundation

WARNINGS: Angst, painful remembering, illness, brief mentions of blood WORD COUNT: 4795 AUTHOR’S NOTE: You know how a piece of fabric can get frayed at the edges, and pulling on the strings can end up making the whole thing unravel? The reader’s starting to notice the frayed edges. Will she start pulling on the strings? 

MASTERLIST

You sat at a table in the corner in a little cafe, iced Frappuccino melting as it sat forgotten beside you. You stared out the window, not even bothering to try and pretend you weren’t anymore. 

You’d convinced Betty that you needed to do a little shopping, and she needed to catch up with a friend from college. She reluctantly agreed, giving you the chance to waste your afternoon in a coffee shop waiting on someone you weren’t even sure was real. 

You put your head in your hands, closing your eyes as you took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The bell above the door jingled and you lifted your head to see a slender woman with short, dark hair approach the counter. You watched her as she grabbed a latte, keeping your eyes trained on her as she walked over, taking a seat in the chair across from you. 

“Miss Ross.”

You slowly nodded, glancing down at the table before you spoke. 

“Pardon me but, um … what the fuck?”

Hope’s eyes widened before her lips curved into a smile. You shook your head. 

“You do know I was just in a year-long coma, right? So I’m not exactly sure I can trust my brain. Especially when I’m talking to someone and then they just disappear into thin air!” “I didn’t disappear. I’m just … sneaky.”

You let out an exasperated sigh and Hope took a sip of her drink. 

“Look, I didn’t mean to make you worry or anything. I just couldn’t deal with your father.” “Yeah, join the club.”

Hope gave a laugh. 

“Honey, I’ve got daddy issues of my own.” “Maybe so, but you didn’t have to grow up with Thunderbolt Ross.”

Hope nodded. 

“Hank Pym was a winner in his own right.”

She stared at the lid on her coffee, then lifted her blue eyes to you. 

“I wasn’t trying to come off as mysterious and scary as I did last night. I’m sorry I frightened you. And made you question your own mind.”

You nodded, taking hold of your cup and swirling your straw around. You picked up a napkin and ran it through the condensation that had gathered on the table. You shook your head, giving a sigh. 

“It’s just … it’s like I’m living someone else’s life. I feel like I should be barely legal and finishing college, only to find that I’m nearly thirty. I had a business of my own, but …”

You shook your head again, lifting your eyes to the woman across from you when Hope spoke softly. 

“It must be jarring, to believe one thing is true, only to find it’s the furthest thing from the truth.”

You nodded, realizing you’d kept hold of the napkin and shredded it into tiny pieces in your lap. You swallowed, then took a sip of your drink. 

“What did … what did you mean last night?”

Hope looked to you, eyes narrowing. You nodded, continuing with your thought. 

“When you said I wasn’t the only one who had lost something?”

Hope nodded, looking down at her coffee cup. 

“You’re running the General’s campaign, right?” “I wouldn’t say I’m running it. I’m just … tagging along.” “Planning the events?”

You nodded, then gave a quiet laugh. 

“Can you not change the subject?” “I was just—“ “No, seriously. Everyone I know has been treating me with kid gloves ever since I woke up, and I’m so sick of it.” “So … you’re saying the General thinks he knows what’s best for you? The General and your sister?”

You started to shake your head, going still as Hope’s eyes met yours. You swallowed, licking suddenly dry lips. 

“What … what do you …”

You looked down at the table, and Hope leaned in closer. 

“You know something’s not right, don’t you?”

You closed your eyes, slowly nodding. You lifted your head, a haze of tears clouding your vision when you looked back to the woman sitting across from you. 

“It’s something bad, isn’t it?”

Hope let out a breath, tapping her foot on the ground. She glanced over her shoulder, then leaned closer to you. 

“Be on the lookout for a package coming in a few weeks.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. 

“A package?”

Hope nodded, and you shook your head. 

“What is that supposed to mean? Why don’t you just tell me?”

Hope smiled. 

“I don’t have all the answers. I’m afraid I have more questions than anything at this point. You are the only one who can answer the questions.” “Stop with the cryptic bullshit, please.” “Cryptic bullshit is all I have right now.”

You stared into those blue eyes, and Hope stood up, taking your empty cup in her hand. 

“I’ll be in touch.”

She turned and walked to the door, dropping the cups in the trash can before she pulled a pair of sunglasses from her pocket, sliding them onto her face before she was swept away by the Los Angeles foot traffic. 

“Hey, sweetie. How was your day?”

You glanced away from the window, smiling when you saw your sister. 

“Fine. How’s Jane?” “Fine. Busy as ever.”

You nodded, turning and looking out the window again. 

“You okay?”

You nodded again. 

“Just tired.” “Want to order a pizza or something?”

You nodded, keeping your face towards the window so Betty wouldn’t see the tears you couldn’t explain that suddenly came to your eyes. Your phone rang and you sniffled as you grabbed it, eyes narrowing at the number you didn’t recognize. 

“Hello?” “It just occurred to me that I got your phone number without asking you and I’m suddenly acutely aware of how stalkerish that seems.”

You gave a quiet laugh. 

“Yeah, you’re really not helping your case at all.” “You’d think I’d realize that, what with me being a lawyer and all.”

The smile on your face widened, and you glanced over to see Betty motioning towards the door, winking at you as she took her phone with her, walking into the hotel hallway. You settled back into your place at the windowsill, closing your eyes at the voice in your ears. 

“I’m sorry we didn’t get a real chance to talk the other night. My … business partner said you looked stunning.” “Thank you.” “He also said you left in a hurry.”

You nodded, looking down at the cars on the road before you spoke again. 

“I, uh …” “You don’t have to explain anything to me.” “No, I …”

You sighed. 

“I’m remembering some things.” “That’s great.” “Yeah, you would think so. It just … it hurts.” “Hurts?”

You nodded. 

“Sometimes I’m fine. I hear something from my past or see something and it’s like ‘oh, that’s right. I wrecked my dad’s car in the grocery store parking lot when I was fifteen.’ Other times … it’s like a knife to my skull.” “I had no idea.”

You nodded, staring at the palm trees outside the window, voice barely a whisper. 

“How could you?”

Matt was quiet on the other end of the line, until his voice rumbled through the line. 

“Y/N, if you’d rather I not call again, you can say. I won’t take offense to it. I just enjoyed talking with you the other day, and I … I feel like we haven’t had enough time.”

You opened your mouth, glancing away from the window as a memory overtook you. 

“Please don’t cry.”

You pressed your face into his chest, digging your fingers into the thick muscles of his back. He sighed, moving his arms around you, holding you tighter. 

“Come on, pretty girl. You know I can’t leave when you’re this upset.” “I’m not upset.” “You’re crying.”

You shook your head, lifting it and pressing your cheek against his. 

“I just wish we had more time.”

You gasped in a breath, squeezing your eyes shut and pressing your hand against the cool glass of the window. Shaky fingers moved your phone to the sill beside you, clicking the speaker button. 

“Y/N? Are you okay? Please say something.”

You nodded. 

“I … I’m okay.” “What happened? You were gasping like you couldn’t breathe.” “Memory.” “Are you okay?”

You shook your head, hanging up the phone and running to the bathroom. You managed to get the toilet open before you threw up, groaning when you heard your phone begin to ring again. 

“Honey? I thought I heard … oh, no.”

You motioned towards the room, where your phone was still ringing. Betty nodded, leaving you to go and answer your phone. 

“Hello? … This is Betty Ross, her sister. … She’s okay, she just … she’s sick. I’ll get her to call you as soon as she feels better, okay? … Thank you.”

Betty walked back into the bathroom to find you with one elbow propped on the bathtub, your face in your hand. She took a washrag and ran it under cold water, kneeling to gently press it against your face. 

“That was Matt Murdock. Which, I’m sure you already knew.” “I hung up on him.”

Betty nodded, moving the cool rag to your neck. 

“He was worried about you.”

You nodded, eyes closed as Betty moved the rag over your face. 

“Are you okay? What happened?” “I remembered something.”

Betty’s hand faltered just the slightest bit, as she moved the rag to your forehead. 

“What was it?”

You shook your head, exhaling sharply. 

“The same man, he was … he was leaving. And I didn’t want him to go. He said he couldn’t leave me while I was crying, and I said I just wished we had more time.”

Betty schooled her face into a passive interest, instead of the horrified look she’d had while you were talking, and you blinked your eyes open to see a soft smile on her face. 

“You feeling okay?”

You slowly shook your head and she helped you stand, staying close as you brushed your teeth, walking beside you and helping you climb into your bed. Betty closed the curtains, standing by the window as you spoke softly. 

“He was wearing a uniform.”

Betty swallowed. 

“The man you’ve been remembering?”

You nodded, rolling onto your side and hugging the extra pillow on the bed. 

“It was blue, like … like a cop’s uniform.” “You think he was a cop?”

You sighed. 

“I don’t know. It doesn’t feel like he was a cop, but he … he was important like that. Don’t ask me what I mean or how I know, because I don’t know. I just … that’s what I feel.”

Betty nodded. You rolled onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. 

“We didn’t have enough time. That’s all I could feel, that I just needed more time.”

Tears gathered in your eyes as you looked at your sister. 

“Please. Please don’t tell me I had someone and lost them. I can’t be remembering all this just to find out he died.”

Betty shook her head. 

“No, honey. No.”

She walked over, sitting on your bed, running her fingers through your hair. You gave a quiet sob, speaking softly. 

“You know more than you’re telling me. Why won’t you just tell me, Betty?”

Betty closed her eyes, continuing to stroke your hair. 

“Sweetie—“ “Whatever Dad told you, he can’t take you away from me. You have to know that.”

You met her eyes, your own glassy with tears. 

“Whatever he threatened you with, he cannot keep me away from you.”

Betty gave a shaky sob, shaking her head. 

“I can’t take that chance.” “How can you keep it from me?” “You kept it from me.”

You blinked, and Betty shook her head, tears slipping down her cheeks. 

“It was a secret, the relationship between this man and you. I had no clue about it at all, Y/N.”

You shook your head, staring at your sister. Betty sniffled, pressing her lips together as she shook her head. 

“You were with him for years before you even hinted at anything. I didn’t … I didn’t even know his name.”

Betty steeled herself, the half-truth she was feeding you making her want to be sick. You shook your head, meeting her blue eyes. 

“How could I do that?”

Betty shook her head, moving a hand to brush your hair back. 

“It doesn’t matter now.” “Where is he? If he was important enough for me to hide him from you, where is he now?”

Betty gave another shaky sigh. 

“I guess that’s something you’re just going to have to remember.”

You were sitting in Betty’s breakfast nook, legs crossed as you ran your fingers over the downy fur of the kitten she had insisted the two of you needed. The little orange tabby was purring in your lap, the two of you settling on Marvin as his name. 

You didn’t know why. Betty didn’t know why. Marvin just suited him. 

A knock at the back door stirred Marvin, the pair of you glancing towards the door. You set the kitten on the floor, watching him scamper towards the door, with you following close behind. You opened the door to find it empty, save for a small box. 

“Package delivery, Marv.”

He gave a soft meow, and you smiled as you picked up the box, bringing it to the table. It was addressed to you, with no return address, and you did a double take when you found the kitten on the table beside the box. 

“Betty would flip if she knew you were on the table.”

Marvin meowed and you shook your head with a quiet laugh. 

“I’m not going to tell her. Just don’t mess anything up.”

He meowed again, in what you could only guess was agreement, little eyes watching as you picked up a knife and cut the box open. You pulled out the contents, setting the box on the floor, laughing when Marvin dove into the box and started to play. You shook your head, eyebrows raising when you saw the contents of the package. 

“Comic books?”

You shook your head, picking one up and flipping through it. You made a quiet humming noise in your throat, picking up the first issue and walking towards the couch in the living room. You smiled when you heard the jingle of the little bell on Marvin’s collar, and you gave a quiet laugh when you sat down and he curled up in your lap. 

“Y/N? Are you home?”

You blinked as you looked up, a shocked breath leaving your lips. You scrambled off the couch, apologizing to Marvin for disturbing his slumber, skidding into the kitchen. Betty stood there with one eyebrow raised and a smile on her face. You shook your head, motioning towards the living room. 

“I am so sorry. I meant to have dinner ready and I started reading and lost all track of time.” “Must have been a good book.” “It is.”

Betty shook her head as she started to unpack the groceries she had bought. You gave a quiet laugh, helping her unpack the groceries. 

“It’s a comic book, of all things.” “Seriously?”

You nodded. Betty clicked her tongue, and you looked back to see her smiling. 

“You were borderline obsessed with the Archie comics back in the day.” “Betty and Veronica fighting over Archie was my jam.”

Betty shook her head, setting the eggs in the fridge. 

“What’s this one about?” “It’s fantasy stuff.” “Oh?” “Superheroes.”

Betty’s hand faltered as she reached for the lettuce. 

“What?” “Oh, it’s these completely far out tales. Like, the one I started a while ago was this guy who got dosed with a fuckton of gamma radiation and now he turns into this giant green rage monster.”

You yelped when the glass Betty had reached for slipped from her hand, shattering against the floor. 

“Oh my god, are you okay? Betty.”

She looked to you and your eyes widened at how pale she suddenly seemed. You shook your head, reaching out for her. 

“Come on. You should sit—ow!”

You winced as you led Betty to a chair, groaning when you saw a piece of glass sticking out of your foot. You grit your teeth and pulled the glass out, closing your eyes and wincing again when you saw the blood dripping from the cut. You shook your head, patting Betty’s shoulder. 

“I’m going to grab a bandaid and make sure Marvin doesn’t find his way in here. I’ll be right back.”

Betty didn’t move as you limped from the kitchen, picking up the kitten from the back of the couch and walking into the bathroom. 

“Never mind the bloodtrail leading here. It’ll be fine. And you, sir, better not shred the toilet paper when I lock you in here.”

Marvin tilted his head at you and you shook your head as you gave a quiet laugh. You sat on the closed toilet and put your foot over your knee, looking down at the cut on your heel. 

Only … there was no cut. There was no blood. You felt your eyebrows furrow as you studied your skin, but there was nothing there. 

“But I felt it. It hurt. I pulled glass out of my foot.” 

You ran a finger along the bottom of your foot, then let it fall back to the floor. You shook your head, turning to look at the kitten sitting on the counter beside you. 

“I’m not crazy.”

Marvin gave a chirp of agreement, and you nodded, pushing a hand through your hair before gathering him into your arms and walking back to Betty. You plopped the kitten into her lap, sliding your feet into a pair of shoes near the door, grabbing the broom and dustpan as you swept up the broken glass. You cleaned the blood from the floor, then walked over to sit beside your still-pale sister. She had one hand slowly petting the purring kitten and you shook your head. 

“Talk to me.”

Betty slowly shook her head. 

“You just startled me, is all.” “I said ‘giant green rage monster’ and you almost passed out. You were white as a sheet, acting like you’d seen a ghost. That’s not like you, Betty. What’s going on?”

Betty swallowed as she looked down at the cat. She shook her head and you gave a forceful exhale. 

“Betty, that stuff is a fantasy. There’s no such thing as—as Iron Man. The Hulk is nowhere even in the vicinity of plausible, because that much radiation would kill a man, not turn him into the literal Jolly Green Giant.”

One corner of Betty’s mouth quirked up. She shook her head. 

“What did … what did the comic say the explanation was?” “As to why he didn’t die?”

Betty nodded. 

“He had some kind of gene or something in his body that partnered with the gamma radiation and somehow protected him instead of killing him. I don’t know; you’re the scientist, Bets. Not me.”

Betty slowly nodded, turning her head to look at you. 

“Where did you get the comic books?”

You lifted a shoulder, shaking your head. 

“They were delivered this morning. No return address.” “What all have you read about?”

You stood up and walked into the living room, gathering the books and bringing them to the kitchen table. 

“This is the first one I read. Iron Man. Then another one about Iron Man, then the Hulk. Thor is up next, and then this one about Captain America.”

Betty clenched her jaw at that, until you showed her the last issue. 

“This one is supposed to bring them all together. Make a team out of them, The Avengers.”

You gave a quiet laugh, shaking your head. 

“Everything I’m reading seems so familiar, but I know I’ve never read these before.”

You tapped the Captain America issue, shaking your head. 

“Anyway, you’re welcome to read them, if you want. I’ll call for a pizza, since I did a crap job of cooking dinner.”

Betty nodded, smiling as you left her to walk into the living room and get your cell phone. She lifted a shaking hand to take hold of the first comic book you’d showed her. She shook her head, running her fingers over the red and gold superhero on the front. 

Tony Stark was no longer a household name. Stark Industries was a shell of the corporation it once was, and both Tony and Pepper Potts had gone off the grid. 

Betty pushed the Iron Man comics aside, lifting the one about Thor. 

No one had heard from Thor since the Battle of Sokovia. Jane had teared up when Betty had asked her about it in L.A., saying that she hadn’t heard from him, but was glad he wasn’t around to meet the fate the others had met. 

Betty swallowed and reached for the Captain America issue, shaking her head and taking hold of the Hulk. 

Bruce hadn’t answered the last time Betty had tried to call. It had been over a year ago, when everything was falling apart with you and then the Avengers. Betty had left a frantic message, telling Bruce to stay away, to hide as best he could to keep himself safe, to go as far off the grid as he’d always wanted to be. 

She still had no clue if he’d even gotten the message. 

Shaky fingers flipped through the pages, reading passages that she remembered as if they’d happened yesterday. A woman was in the comic squares, supposedly a love interest for … 

Betty glanced back a few pages, closing her eyes when she saw Bruce Banner as the scientist who gets turned into the Hulk. She shook her head, flipping forward and discovering the red-haired love interest was none other than Natasha Romanoff. 

Betty set the book down and covered her mouth with a hand. She closed her eyes, biting her tongue. 

This would be for the best. Removing Betty from the story and replacing her with Natasha would save the multitude of questions Betty knew her sister would have. 

But it hurt. 

This story, Bruce’s story, was theirs. Betty was the only one who could bring him back when the Hulk took over. Betty was a witness for the fight that nearly destroyed Harlem, and was the only reason Bruce didn’t kill the Abomination. 

“Betty?”

Betty blinked, turning to face you and smiling. You motioned with your phone. 

“Twenty minutes and we’ll have dinner.”

Betty nodded, standing up from her chair and walking to you. She wrapped you in her arms and you rolled your eyes as you hugged her back. 

“I love you, Y/N.” “I love you too, Betty.” “Please don’t ever forget that.”

You shook your head, and Betty patted your face as she pulled back from you. She walked to uncork a bottle of wine, and you chewed on your lip as you glanced at the comic books spread over the table. 

“What are you reading?”

You smiled as you flipped a page in your book, not lifting your eyes to your curious father. 

“Nothing.” “Y/N…”

You giggled, turning your head to look at him, seeing the stern look on his face. 

“It’s a comic book, Dad.” “Comic book?”

You nodded, and one of his eyebrows raised. 

“Why in the world are you reading comic books?”

You shrugged. 

“I don’t know. They’re interesting. It’s nice to escape reality every now and then.” “Tell me about them. Is it something I’d like?”

You gave a quiet laugh. 

“No, Dad. I seriously doubt you’d like these. They’re fantasy.” “I’ve been known to indulge in a fantasy every now and then.”

You laughed louder, shaking your head. 

“Dad, no offense, but I don’t believe that.”

Thaddeus rolled his eyes and you shook your head again, laughing under your breath. He tapped his thumb against the arm rest and then spoke. 

“I heard you’ve been talking with a lawyer from Manhattan.” “Dad…” “I’m just stating a fact.” “We don’t talk about my dating life, remember?”

The look on his face matched the one on your own, and you swallowed as you blinked a few times. Thaddeus smiled as he moved a hand to gently pat your arm, and you relaxed back in the seat, a soft smile on your lips. After a quiet minute, you spoke softly. 

“Have we ever been to Romania before today?”

Thaddeus shook his head. 

“I have, but you and your sister haven’t. It’s a beautiful place. You’ll love it.” “Even though I don’t speak Romanian? Wait. I don’t, do I?”

Thaddeus chuckled. 

“No, dear. But you’ll be fine. That phone has translation apps and there’s often someone who speaks English.”

You nodded, turning your head to peek out the airplane window. 

“Why are we going there again?” “I’ve got some business with the prime minister before the summit this week.”

You slowly nodded. 

“And the summit is …” “In Vienna this year.”

You nodded again, then let out a slow breath. Thaddeus moved his hand to pat your arm again. 

“Get some rest. We’ll be landing soon.”

The air was warm as you walked along the marketplace, eyes dancing over the booths offering colorful scarves and handmade knicknacks. You made a mental note to come back to those, eyes lighting up when you saw the section offering fresh produce. 

You stopped at a booth with baskets of deep purple plums displayed, and you stepped up beside a man, your hand brushing his gloved one as you both reached for the same fruit. 

“Sorry, I didn’t—“

You stepped back, looking towards another basket as your cheeks flushed. You felt a gentle tap on your shoulder and you glanced back, smiling softly as you took the fruit he offered in his palm. 

“Thank you.”

He nodded, and you studied the plate where the prices were posted. You tried to remember what the exchange rate was, glancing to see if anything could tell you whether credit cards were accepted, stopping when a raspy voice beside you rumbled softly in a language you didn’t understand. You turned to look at the man who had given you a plum before inadvertently paying for it, and he nodded at you before turning and walking away. 

You watched him go, unable to shake the sudden feeling that something about him was familiar. Surely you’d never met him before, because you’d never been to this country. 

But there was something about his eyes, the icy blue somehow haunted…

“There you are. Find anything?”

You blinked, exhaling before you turned and gave your dad a smile, holding up the plum. 

“Just a snack.”

Thaddeus rolled his eyes but smiled, slipping his arm around your shoulders as the two of you walked down the street, and you subtly steered him back towards the booth of scarves. You rolled the plum between your hands as Thaddeus spoke.

“What do you think about Bucharest?”

You nodded. 

“It’s nice. Different, but in a good way.”

Thaddeus smiled, letting his arm fall as you stepped away from his side, fingers dancing over a brightly colored scarf. He tucked his hands in his pockets and spoke. 

“I’m meeting the Prime Minister for dinner. Do you want to come with me?”

You pursed your lips, stepping to another scarf. 

“I don’t think so. I’d like to explore a bit more.” “I’ll get Evan to—“ “Dad.”

You glanced over your shoulder, giving the General a look that made him smile. You shook your head, rubbing the scarf between your fingers. 

“Dad, I’m fine. I’m a big girl. I just want to grab a bite and sightsee a bit.” “Still, I can get Evan to show you around.”

You rolled your eyes, lifting the scarf and nodding before turning to face him. 

“Dad. I can walk around by myself.” “I know that. I just … I worry about you.”

You sighed, smiling at the woman who walked over to you, nodding at the scarf in your hands. You nodded back and she took it from you, to bag it up. You turned to your father and smiled at him. 

“I know. But you don’t need to. I’m fine, really.”

You held up the plum you’d been carrying. 

“I can find my own snacks and everything.”

Thaddeus laughed as he shook his head, stepping closer to you and slipping money to the woman to pay for your scarf. You smiled and slid the bag onto your arm, your smile widening when Thaddeus once again tucked his arm around you as the two of you resumed your walk. 

But you couldn’t help glancing over your shoulder, getting the strangest feeling that you were being watched. 

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[let-me-love-you-loki]

The Christmas that Wasn’t-Ch. 1

A/N: Cooked up with @mox-made-me-do-it​. She is the amazing co-author of this story. It is told in alternating perspectives from the girls (and possibly the boys).

Chapter 1: Leigh

           I looked out the window at the crystal blue water miles below. The sun was glittering on the waves as the plane circled toward the airport.

           “Thank you for choosing United Airlines,” said an overly friendly voice over the intercom. “The attendants will be around shortly to prepare the cabin for landing. Please remain seated and with your seatbelt fastened. We hope you enjoy your visit to Tahiti, where it is a sunny and beautiful 85 degrees.”

           She repeated the message again in several languages, one of which I was sure was French. I drowned out the sound of the voice and turned to my travel companion—my best friend in the whole world Allie Mason. We’d known each other so long that we’d lost count. But life had taken us our separate ways. She’d been pulled to Los Angeles. I’d ended up in North Carolina. Even though we’d spoken at least every other day, we hadn’t had a chance to see one another in almost a year.

           Of course, she hadn’t changed one bit. Well, her blonde hair had gotten a little lighter and a little longer in the California sun. But other than that, she was still the girl I’d met at orientation freshman year of college. The same hazel eyes. The same sense of humor. The same sense of trouble.

           “Leigh, I can’t believe we’re actually doing this!” she squealed, leaning over into my seat. “We haven’t had a girl’s trip in years. After those jerks, we definitely deserve it. Time to soak up some sunshine, make some Vitamin-D, and see if we can’t find some trouble to get into… or onto.”

           I rolled my eyes and grinned. She was right—she almost always was. The last few years of our lives had been wrapped up in relationships that sucked the life out of us. She’d finally broken up with her long-time boyfriend, Jon, who was wonderful at first but then turned out to be a top tier asshole. So much so that he cheated on her a week before their wedding. Without missing a beat, she kicked him to the curb, canceled the wedding, and decided that the two of us would go on her honeymoon instead.

           I’d just walked away from Izzy Phillips, the girl who’d won my heart in college and who’d then proceeded to break it into pieces by the time she was done with me. It was kind of over when I caught her with my cousin in our bed.

           “God, you have no idea,” I whined as the plane finally sat down with a jarring bump. “I’m so done with real life that I’m calling for the check.”

           Allie laughed as we grabbed our carry-on bags and stumbled out of the plane into the bright sunshine of paradise. The air was thick with the scent of salt and sand and heat. We hurried across the tarmac to the tiny airport terminal and let the tide carry us toward baggage claim. We stood side-by-side and watched the conveyor belt go round and round, searching for our suitcases.

           I leaned against her side, trying very hard not to burst into a fit of giggles. The flight from LA had been filled with movies and mimosas in first class. I could still taste the orange juice and champagne on my tongue as I watched people move up to the baggage claim line.

           “Look there,” I whispered, a little too loud and slightly drowned out with giggles, as I pointed to a pair of guys standing a little bit away from us. “Looks like we didn’t leave all the snacks on the plane.”

           Allie followed my gaze and returned a giggle of her own. “I’d climb that one like a tree,” she whispered theatrically, pointing at one of the two guys. He was six foot easy, broad shouldered, stacked, and had golden blond hair that was knotted at the back of his head.

           “Climb away, sweetheart,” I giggled, hooking my arm with hers and gesturing to his companion. He was just as tall and chiseled with two-toned curls and a jaw line that made my stomach turn over. “Curls over there… oh, the things I would do…”

           “Fill out those jeans, don’t they? From the back at least.”

           I giggled behind my hand as our luggage came into view. With a wink to her, I dashed forward, squeezing in between the pair and the person standing next to them to wrestle our bags from the conveyor.

           Mr. Tree stepped forward and reached out, lifting both suitcases from the claim with ease. He plopped them down in front of me with a grin that made cornflower blue eyes twinkle. He had a strawberry blond beard and a gorgeous smile. I squeaked out thanks and dragged the bags back to where Allie waited.

           “Definitely from the front, too,” I said, pushing her bag toward her. “Blue eyes. And a beard. Absolutely your type, Al.”

           We walked into the terminal still giggling. A helpful woman at the information desk let us know that the next ferry to our Bora Bora resort wasn’t leaving for another 45 minutes. I took Allie by the hand and lead her toward the cluster of restaurants in the concourse. There was a sports bar like the ones back home, and I practically shoved her toward it.

           “We’ve got time to kill. Cheese fries!” I exclaimed, following a host to a bar side table. “With everything!”

           Allie grinned and picked up the drink menu. Still giggling, I put my hand over it. “Shh,” I said, even though she wasn’t talking. “Time to put the alcohol away.”

           Just as the waitress came over, Allie glanced over my shoulder and went a strange mixture of pink and pale. For a moment, I thought that asshole Jon had shown up somehow. Then I saw my dearest bestie grin. “Tree and Curls just walked in.”

           I raised my brows and turned just enough to see them out of the corner of my eye. They were two tables away, talking and laughing. I grinned and bumped Allie with my elbow. “Should we send them some drinks?”

           She rolled her eyes and ordered a water and soda. I followed suit. We sat there chatting, waiting patiently for our mega loaded cheese fries. Our drinks arrived, along with a huge, sizzling skillet with a chocolate chip cookie topped with melting vanilla ice cream, hot fudge, whipped cream, and cherries.

           “Ummm.” Allie and I looked at one another. She tapped the waitress on the wrist before she could walk away. “Ma’am, we didn’t order this.”

           The waitress smiled and looked over my shoulder before leaning in conspiratorially. “The gentlemen over there sent it.”

           Allie and I looked at one another, grinning, giggling, and blushing as if we were back in our early days of college. I reached for a spoon just as Allie brightened with a thought.

           “I suppose it’s only fair… after all they did buy it…” She smiled and shrugged.

           With a grin, I scooped a bit of the ice cream and cookie onto the spoon and turned toward them. “This is a little too much dessert for the two of us, fellas. Give us a hand?”

           Tree glanced quickly at his companion and smirked. “Since you asked so nicely. Care to join us?”

           We slipped off our stools and tried to look cool as we dragged our suitcases over. The waitress appeared as if she’d know what was happening, bringing the dessert over to the new table, depositing it with two additional spoons, and returning a moment later with our abandoned drinks. Tree stood up and held out a chair for Allie then one for me. He stepped around the table and slipped into the booth next to Curls.

           I’d gotten a decent look at Tree when he’d helped with my luggage. Now, I had a chance to see Curls up close. His curls were a mix of dark brown and blond, almost as if he’d started dyeing it and changed his mind halfway through. His beard was something between dark gold and faint brown. He was broad shouldered, wonderfully muscled beneath his white t-shirt. But the thing that got me was the way that his smile made his dark blue eyes go crinkly at the corners.

           He picked up a spoon and tapped it against the side of the skillet. “I’m Kenny, by the way. Kenny Omega.”

           “That is an unforgettable name,” I said with a half-smile. “Much more interesting than my own. Leigh Keene.”

           “Not unforgettable at all,” he returned, scooping some of the cookie and ice cream and taking a bite. “Jesus Christ, Hangman, we should have gotten another one of these for ourselves.”

           I watched Allie tilt her head and look over at Tree. “Hangman?”

           Tree looked a little sheepish. “Nickname.” He held his hand out over the table. Jesus, it was a big hand. “Adam Page.”

           I shook his hand and grinned over at Allie, surprised that she was almost silent. “This is Allie Mason. She’s usually much more talkative. But she’s in shock at the moment. You see, a fortune teller told her once to beware the man who bought her an ice cream cookie.”

           Adam’s baby blue eyes went wide. “Really. Well, Kenny’s paying so beware him.”

           Kenny bounced his head side to side in agreement, trying to swallow his food. He pointed his spoon at me. “You haven���t been warned about gentlemen buying you treats, have you?”

           “Me? Oh, no. Well… gentlemen, yes. But I don’t think you have to worry about that.”

           The table was silent for a split second. Allie trod on my foot beneath the table. Then, Adam let out a deep laugh, hiding his mouth behind his fist. “I like her.”

           I shrugged. “Nice of you, Adam. But Allie here needs protecting from Kenny.” I leaned into my friend, trying to get her to talk. “What was it, exactly, that the fortune teller told you? Wasn’t it something about beware the cookie purchaser but not…” I looked up at Adam beneath my lashes, making a guess, “cowboys? Didn’t she say cowboys were lucky?”

------

Tag List

@mox-made-me-do-it​ @not-that-kinda-gurl08​

[artificialqueens]

(Treat Me Nice) Never Let Me Go, 13/15 (Branjie) - Pinkgrapefruit

[ chapter 13. an open heart is an open wound to you ]

Vanessa shakes her head, sighing to herself. “When I was a little girl,” she starts, smiling at the memory, “my mama used to lock me in the attic when I was naughty. I was there often - but it wasn’t bad. I used to pretend I was a princess, trapped in a tower by a wicked queen. And then suddenly this knight, on a white horse with these colours flying, would come charging up and draw their sword. And I would wave. And they would climb up the tower and rescue me.” She looks out across Los Angeles and then to Brooke, whose face is indecipherable. “When I grew up I realised I didn’t need to be rescued, but I still wanted the fairytale.”

[ pretty woman au ]

A/N - God we’re almost at the end. This has been going for over a year and I’m almost scared? It’s going to be weird not having the doc open constantly lmao. Thanks to frey for being my ever wonderful beta and all the branjie stans who still like this!

enjoy! <3

They wake quietly, a sense of unease seeping through the crack under the curtains along with the daylight. Brooke orders breakfast while Vanessa showers (an unspoken agreement), and the shorter woman enters the dining room in an expensive robe to the sight of Brooke - newspaper in hand, coffee in front of her. She’s ordered Vanessa a smoothie bowl and a croissant and Vanessa smiles gratefully at the gesture.

She sips at her water and watches as Brooke methodically turns the pages. She’d woken up with Brooke already gone and she’s not concerned per say, but maybe confused.

“Whatcha been doin’ out here alone?” She asks, eyes softening as Brooke lowers the newspaper. She looks tired.

“Just thinking that this will be our last night together, then you’ll be rid of me,” Brooke admits, almost reluctantly. There’s a melancholy to her words and it soothes Vanessa a little to know that neither are wholly happy about this.

Vanessa smiles, trying to lighten the situation. “Well, you’ve not been the easiest,” she jokes, and it almost brings Brooke to chuckle. They share another smile before they both go silent, eating and drinking.

By the end of the meal Brooke seems to have collected herself, there’s a guard up that Vanessa hasn’t seen since the dinner and she hasn’t missed it. The blonde seems colder, more unfeeling - as if they haven’t exchanged vulnerability and expensive gifts through the week. It’s unsettling.

“Once this is over I’m heading back to Canada,” Brooke tells her, and it’s like a rod is forced up Vanessa’s spine. She sits tall and straight like if she wobbles, she will fall off a tightrope, and if she’s being honest - every breath feels dangerous. There’s a pause and then Brooke follows with, “I’d like to see you again.” And against everything she knows, Vanessa still smiles.

“You would?” She asks like it is too good to be true. Her mama always told her not to trust big businessmen, but Brooke Lynn is a lady. Mama never said nothing about ladies.

“Yes,” Brooke tells her like it’s obvious. And then she switches, because Vanessa still isn’t sure the blonde understands that people can love without money. “I would, so I’ve arranged for you to have an apartment, to have a car, a wide variety of stores guaranteed to suck up to you anytime you want to go shopping.” Vanessa almost grimaces because this is not what she wanted. “Everything is sorted.”

“It is?” Vanessa asks because it’s like Brooke has gone down a tick list and just ticked it all. No consultation, just fixing all her problems like she’s some helpless damsel - which she isn’t. She refuses to be helpless. “What else?” She exhales, palm finding her forehead. “You just gonna leave money on the dresser whenever you pass through town?” Brooke winces like her words hurt, but Vanessa just shrugs it off, because someday she will need to learn these things.

“Vanessa,” Brooke responds, quiet, too quiet. “It wouldn’t be like that.” It’s quiet and earnest, but Vanessa cannot believe it true.

“Yeah? What would it be?”

“Well for one thing it would get you off the streets.” This is the point where Vanessa stands up because this is the point where Brooke has truly hit a nerve. She’s trying to save her when Vanessa does not need saving, and she wants to tell her as much, but she cannot find the right words.

“That’s just geography, Brooke Lynn!” She almost shouts, because she’s angry. She storms out onto the balcony and hopes that Brooke won’t follow her, because she just needs the cold air to bring her back to herself.

To her credit, Brooke manages to wait a few minutes. When she does come out, she stands next to Vanessa, arms braced against the cool concrete balustrades.

“What do you want from me, Ness?” She asks and for a second Vanessa sees the same Brooke who smiled as she watched her eat ice cream at the ballet. “I can give you money, stability, whatever you want.”

Vanessa shakes her head, sighing to herself. “When I was a little girl,” she starts, smiling at the memory, “my mama used to lock me in the attic when I was naughty. I was there often - but it wasn’t bad. I used to pretend I was a princess, trapped in a tower by a wicked queen. And then suddenly this knight, on a white horse with these colours flying, would come charging up and draw their sword. And I would wave. And they would climb up the tower and rescue me.” She looks out across Los Angeles and then to Brooke, whose face is indecipherable. “When I grew up I realised I didn’t need to be rescued, but I still wanted the fairytale.”

She scoffs. “But never, never in those dreams did the knight tell me they’d put me up in a condo and pay my bills.” Brooke gulps, teeth pressing into her bottom lip. She stares at Vanessa. “That ain’t a fairytale. That’s a saviour complex.”

Brooke opens her mouth to respond, but her phone rings and she digs into her pocket to answer it immediately, putting a finger up for Vanessa to just wait a few minutes.

“Ru?” She answers, eyebrows furrowed.

“I just got off the phone with Cain. Get this. She wants to meet with you today.” Brooke shakes her head in an effort to think a little clearer.

“What about?”

“She wouldn’t say. Brooke, I think we got her. She’s on the block.”

“We got her!” Brooke exclaims, laughing in relief.

“Look, if she’s really caving in, I want to get her to commit her stocks to us this afternoon,” Ru tells her, and Brooke sighs, glancing at Vanessa before she makes her next move.

“No, it’s no good,” she relents. “If she’s really caving in, I don’t want to wait ‘till this afternoon. Have Cain meet me downtown this morning. Good bye.” She hangs up with a definitive tap and slips the phone back into the pocket of her slacks. Vanessa looks at her with questions in her eyes, and Brooke just huffs an exhale.

“I have to go now,” she tells her, almost apologetically, “but I want you to understand that I heard everything you said. This is all I’m capable of right now, and it’s a really big step for me.” Her eyes are wide again, and honest too, and they make Vanessa’s insides twist uncomfortably.

“I know,” she sighs, fingers massaging at her temples. A curl of still wet hair falls onto her cheek and she tucks it back behind her ear. “It’s a really good offer for a girl like me.”

“I’ve never treated you like a prostitute,” Brooke tells her.

Vanessa purses her lips and sighs out a long exhale.

“You just did.”

*

Brooke’s been gone little over ten minutes when the phone rings. Vanessa has been darting around the hotel room, drying her hair and slipping on a pair of plaid trousers with a white shirt tucked in. She pinches one of Brooke’s vintage looking watches and slides it onto her wrist.

When the jarring sound of the phone cuts through Janelle Monae’s singing, she pads across the room, picking up the phone with a huff of breath.

“It’s Nina West here, Miss Vanessa,” comes Nina’s tone, warm like honey, and Vanessa relaxes slightly picturing the matronly woman. “Could you come down to the front desk? There’s someone here who wants to speak to you.” She gives a pause clearly meants for Vanessa’s response, but the brunette’s mind is racing through anyone who would want to talk to her at the moment and she misses the cue. “She says her name is ‘Miss Ganache’,” Nina adds, and Vanessa lets out a sigh of relief.

“Could you just let me talk to her, Nins?” She asks, trying to do the vocal equivalent of fluttering her eyelashes. “Pleeeease.” She hears Nina let out a weary exhale and smiles, knowing she’s gotten her way.

There’s the noise of the phone being handed over and then Silky’s voice comes booming through. “Yo, Ness, babe. Would you come down here? The sphincter police won’t let me through.” She tells Vanessa, and the brunette just smacks her palm to her forehead with a sigh, chuckling to herself.

“Sure.”

“Okay, she’s coming down,” Silky says, although it is clearly meant for Nina, and Vanessa slips on a pair of low heels.

When she reaches the front desk, Nina looks exhausted despite it only being a little past nine in the morning. Silky is dressed in a pair of cut off shorts and a white tank top, leaning against the antique looking front desk like she’s not aware she’s horribly out of place. Vanessa feels awful for thinking as much, knowing how she felt less than a week ago, but she’s also dressed like the wife of a respectable lawyer, so she decides nothing less can be expected.

Courtney tells Nina something about a window washer and the woman looks towards Vanessa. “Watch her,” she says, pointing at Silky, and Vanessa laughs, raising a hand in mock salute.

“Nina, yes, Nina,” she jokes and Nina just shakes her head, bemused.

Silky gives her a once over before pulling her into a hug.  “Listen, I’ve been calling you,” Vanessa says while grabbing her hand, guiding her towards a back door that opens into a gorgeous looking garden, where she reckons they can sit and talk a bit easier.

“Yeah, I know, they told me at Trixie’s,” Silky responds while they walk, and Vanessa furrows her brow as if to tell Silky that that answers exactly nothing.

“You were supposed to come by Tuesday. I left money at the desk.”

“I was hiding from Ra’Jah.”

“Well, if you picked up the money, you wouldn’t have to hide, bitch.”

“I was busy. I got a life.” They fall onto a bench surrounded by lilacs. It faces a fountain and the water twinkles in the morning sun. “Marco got beat up. We had to visit him in the hospital, Morgan got arrested. It was a mess. Anyway, I got the money. Thank you very much for saving my ass. Now Ra’Jah can get off of it.” Vanessa has to laugh at her friend’s blunt way of putting things.

“Shit for Marco,” Vanessa states lamely. She doesn’t really know him that well. Just a pot dealer by Trixie’s.

“You know, he was talkin’ about you last night,” Silky tells her, and Vanessa slumps in her seat jokingly. She rolls her eyes. “He would bust somethin’ if he saw you in this outfit.”

“Yeah?” She asks, eyes widening at the statement.

“I was afraid to hug you up there. I might wrinkle you! But yeah, you clean up real nice.”

“Well, thank you, big Silks.”

“You sure don’t fit in down on the Boulevard lookin’ like you do, not that you ever did.” Just because Vanessa knows this is true, it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“Well, thanks, but it’s easy to clean up when you got money.”

“Yeah,” Silky sighs, looking down at her own clothes. They make quite a pair, sat in an expensive hotel’s garden together. Vanessa is starting to realise she will never fit in on Olympic anymore.

They sit in a pleasant silence for a few minutes, just watching as butterflies flutter around the plants.

“You’re in love with her, aren’t you?” Silky asks, but it’s less of a question and more a statement of fact.

“Silky!” Vanessa exclaims, because it is the least explanatory answer she can give.

“You’ve fallen in love with her,” Silky sing-songs again, and Vanessa shoves her playfully.

“Silk, Please.”

“Did you kiss her? On the mouth?”

“Uh, yeah, I did,” Vanessa retorts like she’s proud of it (which she is) and like she would do it again (she would).

“You kissed her on the mouth?” Silky asks in indignation.

“I did,” Vanessa replies again, a blush travelling across her cheeks. “It was nice.”

“You’re in love and you kissed her on the mouth. Does my teaching mean nothing to you?” Vanessa rolls her eyes and gives Silky another push.          

“Look, I’m not fucking dumb okay. I’m–  I’m not in love with her. I just like her,” she tries to explain it, but she just sounds like a confused and whiny teen. Silky looks at her disparagingly.

“You like her?”

“Yeah.”

“You definitely like her?” Vanessa knows the chip Silky has on her shoulder about people like Brooke and she gets it. The more human Brooke shows her, the more Brooke seems completely incapable of separating money from love, but Vanessa still likes her.

“Well,, she’s not a bum. She’s rich, and classy.” Silky raises an eyebrow, and Vanessa sighs. “Who’s gonna break my heart. Right.”

Silky winces at having crushed Vanessa’s spirit. “I mean, it could work. It happens,” she tries to add, but Vanessa just raises a single eyebrow.

“When? When does it happen, Silky?” Silky squints trying to think, and Vanessa cuts in again. “Did it work out for Skinny Marie or Rachel? No.”

Silky makes a face like she’s about to laugh. “Well,” she draws out, “those were some very specific cases of crackheads and one very drunk police officer.” They laugh together for a few seconds and then it peters out.

“I just wanna know my chances, who it works out for,” she tells her, quieter now.

“Trixie and Kat–”

“Doesn’t count. Give me a name.”

“Oh, god, the pressure of a name.”

“Cinder-fuckin-ella.”

They burst into peals of laughter again, Vanessa’s head eventually lands on Silky’s shoulder. Silky shrugs it just to bounce Vanessa’s head and gets an elbow in her ribs.

“When does she leave?” Silky asks, voice low to match the mood of the question, and Vanessa appreciates it.

“Tomorrow.”

Silky rubs soft circles into Vanessa’s arm and just lets the woman sit in her sadness. She reckons she needs it.

[kumkaniudaku]

Bump in the Road

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings: None

A/N: This just kinda came out of nowhere. I hope you enjoy.

“Hi, Micah. It’s me, your mommy. Today you are hitting five months inside of my belly,” CoCo smiled to the camera. “We don’t know if you’re a boy or girl yet, but we’re gonna find out soon. Daddy wants you to be a boy, but I know you’re a girl. I know it!”

For weeks Chadwick and CoCo had gathered bets from friends and family on who was expected to enter the world in six months. Everyone from both sets of grandparents to Tasha’s closest friends was expecting a boy. Tasha was the lone member on team girl, and she was fine with that. She had faith that she’d be holding her princess when all was said and done.

“It doesn’t matter what you are though, sweetheart. You’ll either be Micah Noelle or Micah Noel, and me and Dad will love you just the same. Speaking of Dad, I bet you’re wondering where he is for this one.”

After the initial shock of expecting a child, it was Chadwick’s idea to start a video series for the new addition. Every month, the two would film some aspect of their day for an update. Sometimes, they would sit and share how excited they were to meet Micah. Other times, they would show the progress of the baby room or answer a few questions that might come up in the future.

“Daddy is working, so it’s just been me and you for the last few weeks. I miss him, but I know he’s doing what he can now so he can be with us later. The good news is, he’s coming to visit us this weekend and I can finally show him this!”

Panning the camera down, CoCo caught the image of her slightly round belly protruding underneath her t-shirt. The sight was a new development she noticed days earlier when trying to wear one of her favorite dresses. From that moment, the notion of birthing a human was made real.

“I know it only looks like I had too much pizza, but I promise you’re in there. I can’t believe it some days either.” Tasha’s fingers rubbed gently at the top of her baby bump as she admired her body in the full-length mirror. “Anyway, no one knows about this except me and you. I’ve been keeping it a secret from Daddy and the people outside that like to take pictures of us.”

Only family and close friends knew about Micah’s existence. During the first trimester, it was impossible to determine if the newlyweds were expecting. With this recent development, careful planning in the form of oversized sweaters kept things confidential for the moment.

“Between you and me, I’m nervous to show Daddy. He’s never seen my body change like this,” she chuckled to let go of her nervous energy. “I’m gonna show you to him tonight. Hopefully, he’s excited. We love you, baby. See you in five months.”

——

The soft pitter patter of water hitting the shower wall on the other side of the bathroom door became background noise to Tasha’s racing thoughts.

Her body twisted from side to side as she held her shirt over the swell of her belly for what had to be the 100th time that day. Because of Chadwick’s desire for a nap and a little alone time upon arrival, she’d been able to remain undetected. Now that he was up and ready to venture into the Los Angeles night scene for dinner, Tasha knew she couldn’t hide for much longer.

The click of the door handle being turned snapped her out of her thoughts as she let the oversized nightshirt fall to her waist before her husband could emerge from the mist.

“Damn it feels good to shower in my own bathroom,” he laughed as he maneuvered around the bedroom to his set of drawers. A quick glance to his left made him smile. Tasha continued to stare in the mirror, adjusting her bun atop her head while trying to determine if the shade of red on her full lips was one she wanted to commit to for the night.

“You wearin’ that tonight?”

She whipped her head around to face him and smirked, “No, crazy. I’m still not sure what I want to put on.”

“That’s insane. With all those clothes you’d think you can walk in there and find something new every day.”

Chadwick smiled at his wife’s eye roll before plopping down on his side of the bed to lotion up.

“Well, I would know what I’m going to wear if I didn’t have a little problem.”

“And what problem is that,” he asked while slipping his t-shirt over his head.

“I might have a problem hiding...this.”

Lifting the shirt over her head gave Tasha a split second of time to compose herself and brace for Chadwick’s reaction. When she was finally able to see again, she was met with a glassy stare.

“Is that…”

Though he couldn’t finish his question, she knew exactly what she was asking.

Tasha answered with a rapid head nod and eyes full of tears. “Micah is ready to be seen. You wanna come say hi?”  

A quick crawl across the bed brought Chadwick eye level with Tasha’s stomach as he positioned her body between his legs and gently pressed his palms on either side of her stomach.

Like so many times before, he was in awe of her. Except this wasn’t like every other time before. This intense and overwhelming feeling of absolute adoration made him feel like he was floating in the presence of a goddess. The moment that seemed so far off years ago was staring right back at him. All he could do was stare at the first physical indication of what he always knew to be real.

They were having a baby.

“I think I felt some movement the other day,” she whispered to fill the silence. “It could’ve been gas though. I had some jalapeños.”

That comment got Chadwick’s attention, making him chuckle and look up. “I couldn’t pay you to eat a jalapeño five months ago and now you’re going through jars every week. Was it worth heartburn?”

“So worth it.”

He shook his head and placed a kiss on her belly button before nuzzling his nose against the spot. “I hope your mommy didn’t disturb you with that bad food, little man. I’ll be home soon to stop her.”

“But, until then, we’re eating all the jalapeño and cheese I can find!”

“Oh, no you won’t!” The room became filled to the brim with childish giggles and shrieks as Chadwick used his slender fingers to tickle Tasha’s waist until she heaving for breath in his lap.

Watching her eyes close and cheeks rise to their peak in laughter was bittersweet. This weekend would be the only time they would be able to physically touch each other for at least four weeks. He’d already missed key changes in her body, holding her through morning sickness, and helping her through the emotional changes that she occasionally displayed during their daily conversations. She needed him though the wouldn’t say it, and he needed her just the same.

Trailing his fingers up her thigh, past the waistband of her shorts, and over the swell of what he hoped to be the home of a healthy baby boy while maintaining eye contact with the one person capable of changing his world with little more than a smile.

Chadwick’s hand rested on her stomach as his lips connected with Tasha’s. She used her thumb to wipe away tears he didn’t know sat on his cheeks before they pulled apart to look at each other.

“Have I told you how beautiful you are today?”

“Whaaat? Even with all this extra belly,” Tasha smiled.

“Especially with all this extra belly.” Chadwick watched his wife turn away with a bashful smile before he gripped her chin to turn her back to him. “Wear the black dress. The one that ties above your stomach.”

Tasha titled back with a look of skepticism that wasn’t lost on Chadwick by the way he smiled back at her.

“Are you sure Mr. Privacy? You ready for that type of attention?”

“Micah is obviously ready to be seen,” he declared, echoing Tasha’s earlier sentiments. Both of their eyes traveled to her stomach as they rested their hands at the highest point. “If Micah is ready, let’s make sure he’s-”

“She,” Tasha corrected.

“Or she,” he laughed. “If they’re ready to be seen, then let’s do it on our terms. Together.”

Chad’s fist extended towards CoCo, waiting for her to return the gesture with a light tap of her knuckles against hers which she returned with no hesitation.

“Alright, Captain. Let’s do this together.”

Though the thought of exposing his growing family to the world’s eyes terrified him, Chadwick remembered the promise he made over a year ago in the room not too far from where he sat. Privacy was different from a secret and, for the first time, he felt comfortable sharing a small part of the biggest piece of himself with the world.

Micah was ready, and finally, so was he.

____________

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[kinshipacrosstime]

Acute Angel

@dailypattondoodle is probably asleep, but they want Logan angst, so Logan angst they will have. I hope you don’t mind me tagging you rippp

Prompt list | Read it on Ao3 Prompt used: “How, Patton? How do you deal with all of these feelings? It’s so painful,” Logan cried.

TW: light description of a panic attack.

Hands shaking, knees knocking, and chest heaving, Logan pulled himself step by painful step into the kitchen. He fumbled around in the cabinets until he came away with a plastic water bottle; he toppled in the direction of the sink and caught himself on the edge with his elbow. His trembling fingers wrapped around the tap and he let water pour into the bottle and overflow. He shut off the tap, screwed the top of the bottle on, and sank to the floor in the corner, pressed up against the cabinet doors.

He chugged water, then took ten deep breaths. Chugged water, took ten deep breaths. Water, breathe. Water, breathe. Keep going.

His brain, simply, was completely overloaded. There was too much input- from everywhere.

He could hear every sound in the darkness of the kitchen, feel every thread of his pyjama pants around his hips, smell every bit of leftover food and discarded garbage- but the worst, the absolute worst of it all wasn’t the tangible, real input. No.

It was the emotional input.

There was so much noise inside his own head, it was making his heart hurt.

The biggest, most glaring issue with that? Logan wasn’t supposed to have one of those.

Feelings were strictly not his realm of expertise, nor anything he was supposed to have to deal with. That was Patton’s thing. He was cold, hard facts, for chrissakes. He didn’t have a heart. He didn’t cry.

Which is why, of course, no one could see this or ever know about it. Logic wasn’t supposed to fall apart. Logic was supposed to be sound. Rational.

He finished his water.

Naturally, though, with all of these forbidden situations looming overhead, Logan heard footsteps in the screaming quiet. He shot to his feet, dropped the water bottle on the counter, and ran the tap, splashing cold water onto his face.

He looked up to see Patton, with his pyjama pants slung low across his hips and a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, standing in the doorway and blinking at him.

“Hey, Logi-Bear,” he said finally, with a voice that sounded like sleep.

“Hi, Patton,” Logan said carefully, wary of how broken and emotional he sounded. If Patton picked up on it (he did), he also picked up on the fact that Logan did not want to talk about it.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” Patton asked, crossing to the fridge and pulling out the carton of milk.

“Guess not,” Logan told him, turning to watch as Patton took down a mug from the cabinet.

“That’s alright.” He held up the mug. “Hot chocolate?”

Logan’s fist slowly started to unclench from around the the edge of the sink. “Please,” he said, grateful for Patton’s graceful navigation of the situation he knew he walked in on.

Even if Patton hadn’t been the most emotional and caring side, he wouldn’t have been able to miss the cracks in Logan’s voice, the tremble of his fingers, and the red of his eyes.

But if Patton hadn’t been the most emotional and caring side, Logan was willing to bet this interaction would be a lot more forceful and a lot more painful. For everybody.

He took down another mug, poured milk into both, and put them in the microwave. While they waited for the beep to go off, he plucked four cookies out of the cookie jar and handed two to Logan with a wink. “I don’t know about you, but it’s been a two cookie kinda day.”

Logan lurched at the subtle offer with open arms and a cookie between his teeth. “Do you want to talk about it?” He asked.

Patton smiled sadly. “Only if you’re willing to listen.”

Logan tore open the little packets of hot cocoa mix and nodded. “Of course I am, Patton.” He took the now-warm milk mugs out of the microwave, poured the mix into them and stirred with a spoon Patton provided. “Would you like to sit?” He gestured to the breakfast bar and it’s chairs, but Patton took his mug and sat down on the ground. Logan, after a beat, joined him, sitting in the same spot he had vacated not four minutes prior.

“Nothing bad happened today,” Patton started. “You know that. Everyone got along alright and nothing traumatic happened…”

“But…?” Logan prompted.

“But,” Patton agreed with a soft nod and a sip of his cocoa. “Do you ever just… feel sad? I do. There’s no reason for it, but sometimes I just am. It’s okay, but it’s not fun. I guess I’m just a little bit sad tonight.”

“I’m sorry,” Logan said awkwardly.

“Don’t be,” Patton said simply. “It’s not your fault, kiddo. It’s not your responsibility-“

“Why not?”

“Why would it be?” Patton asked innocently. Logan saw through his little game as he was meant to.

“Because… because I care about you,” he confessed. “And when you’re sad, it makes me… uncomfortable.”

“Logan,” Patton said gently. “It’s okay. I promise.”

He cleared his throat and took a long sip of his hot chocolate. Then he tried again. “When you’re sad, it makes me… sad.”

Patton squeezed his hand and smiled proudly. “You’re more empathetic than you think you are, Logan.”

He sighed and stared down at his mug. “I don’t… I don’t like it.”

Patton laughed bitterly. “Strange that you would. I don’t like it either. Not a lot.”

He hesitated a moment before leaning into Patton and letting his heart be heavy. “It… It hurts. So much-!” His voice cracked and new tears spilled out of his eyes. “How, Patton? How do you deal with all of these feelings? It’s so painful,” Logan cried, looking up at the heart with pleading, helpless eyes.

Patton’s face softened. “Oh, angel…” He whispered, putting an arm around his shoulder and guiding his head into his lap. Patton ran his fingers through Logan’s hair with a gentle and kind certainty. Logan, though frightened and sad, felt incredibly cared for. “I… I don’t know, angel,” Patton admitted quietly. “Some days, I really don’t know. I just… try to remember everything, not just the bad things. Do you understand?”

“N-No?”

“I… Ah. Well...” Patton hummed for a moment, his fingers beginning to trace little circles behind Logan’s ears. “I… Understand that you don’t think you should feel anything. Is that a fair assessment?”

Logan sniffed and buried his head closer against Patton with a nod. “I’m logic, Patton. Cold, unfeeling logic.”

Patton’s hands stilled and slipped around to his cheek and held him up. “No, angel, that’s not true, darling… It really isn’t.”

“How can’t it be?” Logan asked helplessly. “How can I ever hope to be anything other than what I am?!”

Patton’s voice went stern, suddenly, and became somehow unrelenting in its kindness. “In that case, Logan,” he said, “I’m afraid you don’t know your true purpose as well as you think you do.”

Logan blinked slowly. “I don’t… I don’t understand?”

“You are more than- than- than math, angel! There is logic in the cold, hard, unfeeling things, yes, but there’s logic in other things too! You can’t regulate yourself to only the kinds of logic which are easiest to understand- to do that would be to sell yourself and your skill set short! There’s logic in everything, for the love of god- in nature, there’s logic! But, you may say, nature is a thing of beauty, logic doesn’t belong in a thing of beauty. And that’s where you would be so terribly wrong! Nature is both heart-wrenching and thought-provoking. Both beautiful and logical. Do you understand?” Patton halted his little tirade and peered down at the mind hopefully. Logan nodded dumbly and Patton smiled gently. “Good. There is no reason that you can’t be the same- that you aren’t already the same. You are logical, and you are beautiful.

“There’s ugly parts to you, too- just like there’s ugly parts to everyone. Roman and Virgil and me, we all have not great stuff about us, but we’re beautiful at the same time-”

“There’s no ugly parts to you, Patton,” Logan whispered. “Truly, there aren’t.”

Patton smiled and Logan saw a shiny tear slide down his freckled face. “Thank you for saying that, Lo. As untrue as it may be.” Logan opened his mouth to protest (for he truly, truly believed that Patton was beautiful through and through), but Patton held up his hand and shushed him. “It’s alright, angel. The point here is this- you think that the emotions you have are the entirety of the ugly part of you. The truth is that they make up so much of your beauty, if you’d just allow yourself to feel them and express them, you’d be able to see that as well as I.”

“I don’t know how,” he said. “I just don’t- I don’t-” He broke down crying again and hid his face in Patton’s blanket.

“That’s what I’m here for, darling.” Patton wrapped the blanket tightly around the both of them and pressed a soft hand to Logan’s quivering chest. “Take a deep breath, ok?” He did as he was told without question. “Good, that’s good. Keep doing that. Just keep breathing…” And then there was a sharp, icy feeling in Logan’s heart. He cried out, frightened and confused, but Patton hushed him again and held him still with his eyes. “It’s okay, it’s okay. It might hurt a little bit, but you’re gonna be okay, just keep breathing. Just keep breathing.”

Logan kept breathing. He kept breathing as Patton pulled all of his emotions out of the hidden places he kept them for so long. Patton’s eyes were calm, though somehow regretful, as though seeing Logan in pain distressed him. It likely did.

“Almost done, angel, you’re doing so good…”

The sharpness, suddenly, began to ease up and the iciness began to thaw. Tears still poured out of Logan’s eyes, but they were of a different nature than any he had ever cried. They were almost… happy?

A weightlessness came over him, then, and he found himself laughing at nothing and everything. Patton smiled and laughed with him, finally drawing his hand away from Logan’s chest.

The lightness faded slightly, but the remnants of it didn’t. He watched Patton laugh for a long moment. “Thank you,” he said, finally.

“Of course, my angel.” Patton tucked a stray curl behind his ear and glowed in a shy, happy way. “I can’t do that for you all the time, but… but whenever you’re having a hard time with expressing your feelings- which, we’ve established, you do have- just come talk to me, okay?”

“I will. I promise.”

“Good!” Patton leaned his head against Logan’s shoulder and yawed. “Just wanna sleep here?”

Logan smiled at his sleepy heart. His sleepy, kind, beautiful heart who would protect him from himself. Who he trusted without question. “That sounds wonderful.”

“Goodnight, acute angel.”

[watusichris]

“Desolation Center“: Joy at Sea

Tonight I’ll be attending a cast and crew screening of “Desolation Center,” Stuart Swezey’s new documentary about the unusual alfresco punk shows he promoted in the early ‘80s. I am a talking head in the picture. Lo and behold, while doing a little poking around on the web, I discovered that 34 years ago to the day today, I attended the event I talk about in the film, aboard a whale-watching boat in San Pedro Harbor. Here’s what I wrote about for the event in the Los Angeles Reader. **********

         The biggest problem with rock ‘n’ roll performances is the wall socket. The music runs on electricity; hence it must be played in basements, garages, dives, and concert halls in which juice can readily be run. Over the years, the rock ‘n’ roll imagination has become hamstrung by a familiar proscenium-arch setting. It’s a thing of the stage and, no matter how much a band gussies things up with flash pots, fog machines, backdrops, and other theatrical gimcracks, we still know that we’ve been looking at a stage at the end of a forty-five minute set.

           Not everybody in the world is happy with this set-up. Take the folks at the Desolation Center. For the last couple of years, mastermind Bruce Licher (the guiding light of Savage Republic and the most artful of local record packagers) and his cohorts have schlepped people out into the middle of the desert by the busload to witness rock ‘n’ roll in its most radical state, played in its most radical environment. Although I never made the Death Valley trek (must have something to do with having seen Erich von Stroheim’s Greed at an early age), I’ve always admired the idea of a rock ‘n’ roll outing – it limbers up the brain by providing a new imaginative context for the performance.

           Last week, the Desolation Center hit on another original idea for taking rock ‘n’ roll out of the nightclub and into the real world: “Joy at Sea,” a three-hour “sea-going musical expedition” held on board a cruise vessel meandering in a circle from San Pedro to Long Beach through the Port of Los Angeles harbor. Since drowning has always been a more appealing way of dying than expiring of thirst as far as I am concerned, I signed on for the tour.

           I approached the journey with some trepidation. Hell, I thought, this could be some kind of punk Pequod. I envisioned myself floating around San Pedro Harbor on the back of a coffin, as my capsized ship was sucked into a whirlpool and Robert Lloyd*, strapped by harpoon lines to the back of a great white whale, screamed, “Springsteen! Springsteen!” as he was carried to his watery doom. Call me Maurice.

           This fantasy proved to be a case of too much Melville. The boat, the S.S. Cormorant, proved to be a sturdy-looking two-tiered cruise vessel; at the stern of the upper deck, a small stage had been erected. Lights and a PA system had been lashed to the sides of the stage. The good-sized boat sat comfortably in the dark, serene water. At the neighboring dock, a group of teenagers sang a loud, drunken rendition of “Happy Birthday” from the back of a small pleasure boat. My nerves calmed, I boarded merrily, washing down two Dramamine with a tap beer, and waited for us to cast off.

           Shortly after 9:30 p.m., the Cormorant glided away from the dock. After a brief interval that allowed the 200-odd passengers to get their sea legs, the South Bay quartet Lawndale started cranking up below decks. They attracted a small group, since most of the assembled crew was jammed together up top, waiting for the Meat Puppets to begin their set. A pity, for Lawndale (in yachting caps and deck shoes) proved to be a completely entertaining neo-surf combo, who tore into their all-instrumental set with a vigor evidently born of the ocean-going setting.

           After Lawndale wound up their brief but refreshing set, I moved upstairs and wedged my way next to the stage. The Meat Puppets were experiencing some technical difficulties, so I had a chance to take in the harbor as we coasted by. The notion of the cruise was plainly anti-romantic: The Port of Los Angeles is the home of heavy industry. One experienced a new sense of scale as the Cormorant sailed past docked oil tankers some three city blocks long; the petroleum refineries glowed an angry yellow in the distance.

          After much fussing and fiddling with their equipment, the Puppets finally got under way again. The set progressed in fits and starts as the overamped trio repeatedly blew out the circuit breakers on the overtaxed vessel, but it proved to be an impressive showing, heightened by the shifting open-air backdrop of the harbor.

           The Meat Puppets are a trio from Arizona fronted by two long-haired, somewhat retarded-looking siblings, guitarist/vocalist Curt Kirkwood and bassist Cris Kirkwood. With drummer Derrick Bostrom, the brothers stir up a fantastic amount of noise; Curt pushed his old gold Les Paul into overdrive. The Puppets have a rep as an on-and-off band, but last Friday they turned in a performance as sharp and bracing as the ocean air.

          The group played a set that alternated between their own microcephalic country material (such as “Split Myself in Two” and the strange Grateful Dead-style instrumental “I’m a Mindless Idiot”) to some bizarre cover tunes. In a wobbly voice that sounded like a cross between a laugh and a sob, Curt Kirkwood essayed Elvis Presley’s “Trouble” and “Good Rockin’ Tonight,” Tony Joe White’s “Polk Salad Annie,” and the Foghat arrangement of “I Just Want to Make Love to You.”

           The musical and visual high point of the evening occurred in the middle of the Puppets’ set. The band launched into a ferocious jam announced as “Enchanted Fortress.” As the music reached its peak, with Bostrom slamming his kit and Curt Kirkwood drawing gnarled, agonized lines from his Gibson, the Cormorant passed under the enormous bridge that links the two sides of the harbor. The structure is so high that the cars crossing it looked like planes flying low over the water. The force of the music and the feeling of motion and immense scale all fused to produce a unique sensation – a moment of joy, just as advertised.

           Somebody on the top deck whooped and set off a signal flare in celebration.

          After the Meat Puppets’ set came to a loud and triumphant close, some of the partiers ventured downstairs to score another beer and check out the “psychoactive sound/visuals” of Points of Friction, which proved to be a minimally interesting low-rent light show projected on a sheet/screen. If it had been a normal concert, this would have been the time to hit the lobby for a cigarette; instead, you could head for the outside areas fore and aft, to gaze at the darkened yachts or yell drunkenly at the diners aboard the sea-going restaurant the Princess Louise. The ennui that is so often a given at a rock concert disappeared, blown away in the mild harbor wind.

          By the time the evening’s headliners, the Minutemen, were ready to play, the top deck resembled a seaworthy version of the Cathay de Grande’s basement, with the audience members shoehorned together in a tight, motionless pack. The little stage looked too small and the lighting buttresses too fragile for the peripatetic Minutemen; I wondered to myself if Dennes Boon, the leaping, bounding mountain who plays guitar for the group, wouldn’t send the whole kaboodle over the side with his elephantine dancing.

           My fears again proved boundless; although bassist Mike Watt stood (somewhat nervously, I thought) behind one of the PA columns to give Boon more room, the gargantuan guitarist didn’t jar the stage loose with his galloping. San Pedro’s greatest contribution to Western Civilization played their customarily brilliant set, featuring crowd-pleasing oldies (including the appropriately nautical “The Anchor”), a devilish 20-second cover of Van Halen’s “Ain’t Talkin’ ‘Bout Love,” a moving slow version of Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Don’t Look Now, It Ain’t You Or Me,” and a generous helping of the new, forty-five song two-record set Double Nickels On the Dime.

          Another grand visual moment came late in the evening. As the Minutemen surged through their lightning-like songs, the Cormorant reached the point where the harbor joined the ocean; as the boat made a wide turn to head back into port, a vast expanse of the Pacific loomed up behind the trio as they steamed through a clipped, thrashing tune. The almost-full moon made the water dance into infinity. For a landlocked rock ‘n’ roller, it was a sight and sound to behold.

           The Cormorant nudged up against the dock while the Minutemen were still playing. The show broke up quickly and I weaved down the gangplank, more than a little drunk and thoroughly exhilarated. It had been a surprisingly perfect evening – no fights, no hassles, no boredom. No seasickness. The combination of the fine music and the shifting seascapes had opened a new window in my head by taking rock ‘n’ roll out of dry-dock and into fresh performance terrain.

           Sign me up for the Desolation Center’s 1990 moon shot. It should be worth the long haul.

*Lloyd, now a TV critic at the Los Angeles Times, was the Springsteen-loving music editor of the LA Weekly. (photos: Ann Summa)

[sfarticles]

Hot diggity dog! Explore some tasty takes on one of America’s iconic foods

As seen in the New Haven Register 7/22/20:

https://bit.ly/3fXQLvX

Whether you call it a frankfurter, frank, wiener, weenie, coney, red hot or hot dog, it’s National Hot Dog Month and time to celebrate one of America’s most iconic foods. Hot dogs are part of American culture and summer backyard celebrations.

I remember lunchtime when I was in elementary school, and we waited in line by the old station wagon with the wood-grain side panels where the street vendor served up boiled hot dogs topped with hot sauerkraut with spicy, brown mustard from the back hatch of the vehicle. This was the way wieners were served, at least in the New York City area.

Living not too far from the original Nathan’s on Coney Island, my parents would take me there to enjoy the famous dogs and french fries. Don’t we all have “hot-dog memories” and favorite brands and toppings? Each region of he country has its  favorites, too. It seems that Hummel, founded in 1933 in New Haven, is the favored brand in this region of Connecticut.

No matter where you travel in the country, there is a local hot dog stand, pushcart, diner, deli or restaurant offering its version of the American classic, often with “secret” condiments topping off the dog.

Traveling this summer might not be on your agenda, so get yourself a copy of “The Great American Hot Dog Book: Recipes and Side Dishes from Across America” by Becky Mercuri (2007, Gibbs-Smith Publishing, $14.99) and you will be able to “visit” some well-known hot dog places from  your own kitchen.

From the Coney Island Dog of New York to the Remoulade Dog in New Orleans to the tortilla-wrapped Bacon Burrito Dog  at Pink’s in Los Angeles to the New York System Hot Wiener Sauce served at the famous Original New York System in Providence, R.I., the book takes you on a tour to reveal the inside story of how the hot dog has evolved and become even more firmly entrenched in America’s culinary traditions.

You’ll notice how the humble hot dog has stepped up a notch or two, dressed up in creative toppings. Mercuri begins with a bit of hot dog history and introduces entrepreneurs who’ve contributed to hot dog culture. The following chapters are devoted to various regions of the country. She then breaks down the chapter by state, including well-known establishments, back stories and recipes for  the dogs, toppings and  signature side dishes.

Recipes such as Hot Dog Parmesan and Philadelphia Surf and Turf (a grilled fish cake, mashed, that tops  off a hot dog, with yellow mustard and chopped onions), I must admit, made me want to stick to the dogs I prefer, like those served from that old station wagon.

Celebrate the all-American food that has been served by presidents, enjoyed by astronauts on the moon and relished in backyards throughout the country. Here are a few recipes from the book for you to enjoy on your “tour.”

                     Deep-Fried Dogs with Mustard and Pear-Pepper Relish                                                                

The headnote says, “This mild, delicious relish is a cousin to that served at Blackie’s. If more heat is desired, increase the amount of jalapeno peppers. The recipe is adapted from a formula for pear relish by the late Chef Chet Beckwith of Baton Rouge, La., and as Chet would say,  ‘It will set your toes tapping.’”

Founded in 1928, Blackie’s, located in Cheshire, is a well-known establishment in Connecticut. They even make their own mustard. The author writes, “their spicy hot relish is a closely guarded secret, and fans are left speculating as to the formula for what appears to be a mixture of chopped green peppers, vinegar, and spices — including, perhaps a bit of cinnamon.”

4 firm Bartlett pears, peeled, cored and coarsely ground in a food processor

2 large onions, chopped

2 medium green bell peppers, cored, seeded and diced

1 jalapeno pepper (or more, to taste), seeded, deveined and diced

Boiling water

11/2 cups sugar

21/4 teaspoons mustard seed

3/4 teaspoon ground allspice

1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon

3/4 teaspoon turmeric

1 tablespoon salt

11/2 cups white vinegar

Prepare and place, in 3 separate bowls, the pears, onions and all the peppers. Place pears in a colander and pour boiling water over them, drain well and place in a heavy medium pot. Repeat with the onions and then the peppers, adding both to the pot with the pears. Mix the pears and peppers together. In a medium bowl, combine the sugar, spices and salt, and add the pear mixture. Add the vinegar and mix well. Over medium-high heat, bring the mixture to a boil. Reduce heat to low and simmer, uncovered and stirring occasionally for 30 minutes. Pour the hot relish into hot, sterilized jars and cover, following the manufacturer’s directions for preparation and safety. Place the jars of relish in a boiling hot water bath for 20 minutes. Remove from water and set the jars on kitchen towels to seal, this will be indicated by a popping noise. Makes about 4 12-ounce jars.

Assembly

Canola oil for deep-frying

Hot dogs, all-beef or a pork and beef mixture

Hot dog buns, toasted

Spicy brown mustard

Pear-pepper relish

In a heavy, deep pot, heat the canola oil over high heat to 350 degrees. Deep-fry the hot dogs, a few at a time to the desired degree of doneness. Place the hot dogs on buns and top with mustard and pear-pepper relish. Serve immediately. Source: Hummel Brothers.

                                     Bacon-Kraut Dogs                                                                

Rawley’s Drive-In located in Fairfield is another Connecticut favorite. The author writes, “Rawley’s is a busy place, often frequented by Meg Ryan or David Letterman. ... The bacon topping is so popular that Rawley’s fries up twenty pounds of it every day, and some folks order ‘heavy bacon,’ or double the amount.”

Canola oil for deep-frying

Beef and pork franks

Hot dog buns

Butter

Mustard

Sauerkraut, plain or heated (recipe below)

Chopped onion

1 slice of bacon per hot dog (or more, to taste), cooked crisp, drained and crumbled

In a heavy, deep pot, heat the canola oil to 350 degrees. Deep-fry the hot dogs, a few at a time, until they are just beginning to blister. Meanwhile, heat a griddle. As the hot dogs are removed from the oil, transfer them to the griddle and cook until crispy and blistered. Open hot dog buns and lightly butter the inside; place on griddle to toast. Place the hot dogs in buns and top with mustard, sauerkraut, onions and bacon. Serve immediately.     

                                                          Sauerkraut                                                The headnote says, “Some folks are partial to plain sauerkraut on their hot dogs, but this version, mild and favorable is truly a delicious topping.

”1 (2-pound) package refrigerated sauerkraut

1/2 cup butter

2 medium onions, chopped

1 (14-ounce) can beef broth

1 cup white wine, such as Chablis, divided

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In a colander, rinse the sauerkraut under running water and drain well. In a deep, medium frying pan, melt butter over low heat. Add onions and sauté, stirring occasionally, for 20-25 minutes or until soft and translucent. Add sauerkraut and mix well. Stir in beef broth and, over medium-high heat, bring just to a boil. Remove from heat and stir in 1/2 cup of the wine. Pour sauerkraut mixture into a 13-inch by-9-inch non-reactive baking dish and cover tightly with foil. Bake for 1 hour. Remove sauerkraut from oven, stir in remaining wine, reseal with foil and return to oven for 1 hour longer, or until sauerkraut is golden and most of the liquid is evaporated. Makes about 4 cups.

                                       North Dakota State Fair Corn Dogs                                                                

Canola oil for deep frying

1/2 cup all-purpose flour

1/2 cup yellow corn meal

1 tablespoon sugar

1 teaspoon baking powder

1/2 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon dry mustard

1/2 cup milk

1 egg

1 tablespoon vegetable shortening, melted

6 hot dogs

Plain yellow or spicy brown mustard

In a deep pot, heat oil to 375 degrees. In a bowl, mix together the flour, cornmeal, sugar, baking powder, salt and dry mustard. In a separate bowl, whisk together the milk, egg and shortening and add it to the flour mixture, stirring until smooth. Place the mixture in a deep pie pan. Dry hot dogs with paper towels. Dip hot dogs into batter to evenly coat and carefully place into hot oil, cooking two at a time. Deep-fry two to three minutes, or until golden brown, turning them carefully with tongs to brown all sides. Remove from oil and drain on paper towels. Serve immediately with the mustard. Serves 6.

Note: Wooden sticks may be inserted into the hot dogs before they are battered and deep-fried.

                                       Culinary calendar                                                                

“Summer Saturdays”July 25 noon-4 p.m., participating New Haven restaurants will offer two-course prix-fixe lunch menus for $20 (excluding beverage, tax, and gratuity). Reservations are required. Other restaurants and cafes, including coffee shops and bakeries, offer 20 percent  off an item. Local musicians will perform live at select spots throughout the city. Special parking rates are available. Participating restaurants and other retail shops at www.infonewhaven.com/new-haven-summer-saturdays.

.          What chef would you like me to interview? Which restaurant recipes or other recipes would you like to have? Which food products do you have difficulty finding? Do you have cooking questions? Send them to me: Stephen Fries, professor and coordinator of the Hospitality Management Programs at Gateway Community College, at gw-stephen.fries@gwcc.commnet.edu or Dept. FC, Gateway Community College, 20 Church St., New Haven 06510. Include your full name, address and phone number. Due to volume, I might not be able to publish every request. For more, go to stephenfries.com.

[lehautedaug]

🌪🏺💦 Age of Aquarius 🌪🏺💦Aquarius is the sign of the mystical water bearer, pouring etheric water down to the earth from the Heavens. While water is a symbol within the sign, Aquarius is ruled by Air, so when you put them together you have mist, fog, vapor, and add some fire for the sun and you get a rainbow. Rainbows are innovative and unusual like Aquarians. Welcome the Season of Aquarius by hanging a crystal prism in a window that the sun shines through, and lighting an Air candle next to a vase of water symbolizing the Water Bearer. When the sun hits the prism and fills your room in rainbows, close your eyes and wait for the spirit of Aquarius to give you a new and innovative inspiration! ⁠⠀ .⁠⠀ 🌪🕯Our Air Element candle is made with lavender and peppermint, mixed into our exclusive soy and beeswax blend, and housed in a reusable frosted jar with natural cork top. Swipe left and tap the photo for more info!⠀ .⁠⠀ .⁠⠀ .⁠⠀ .⁠⠀ .⁠⠀ .⁠⠀ .⁠⠀ .⁠⠀ #horoscopeposts ⁠⠀ #astrologyposts #sunsigns #newmoon #fullmoon #esoteric #boholife #hippiestuff #witchery #witchesofinstagram #spellcasting #newage #moonmagic #moonwitch #moongoddess #moonphases #manifestation #moon #witchgirl #spirituality #aquariusseason #ageofaquarius #airsigns #earthairfirewater #ritualcandles (at East Hollywood, Los Angeles) https://www.instagram.com/p/B78y7osBki6/?igshid=5r6jba6j6tp3

[marshmallow-fireside-keith]

First Date Part 1

[beauty-d-blog]

The Crockpot Review -Leimert Park

Yesterday I was #chillinatthecrockpot concert tour in Leimert Park. #Thecrockpot is a live music experience with a DJ and multiple performances followed by an open-mic jam session! Performers consisted of Soul and R&B singers, Tap dancers, Rappers, Musical bands, Poets, and many more!

The concert is FREE to the community and is often referred to as the family reunion. It definitely gave me a family reunion vibe! I felt at home and refreshed at this event as a woman who is new to Los Angeles and living away from my family in an area without much diversity and people of color. Everyone I encountered was warm, friendly, comfortable to be around, and consistent with the Crockpot motto: Starve the ego feed the soul.  

The food was amazing! Food vendors offered a range of options including soul food and vegan food. One vendor was frying homemade catfish, chicken, and fries; another vendor had homemade gumbo, banana pudding, and peach cobbler; I ordered from the Grilled Fraiche food truck, which served veggie, shrimp, chicken, and salmon bowls. Food prices ranged from $5-$20 and were offered in good portions.

Another vendor, Restore Blendz, serves functional blended beverages in addition to frozen treats with a delicious vegan option as well! The beverages support liver, kidney, and bowel function, promote healthy weight management, anti-inflammatory, and full of antioxidants. The beverages come in 15oz reusable glass jars and I purchased the bargain deal: two beverages for $10 in the Kalemonade and Summer Water flavors, which were both delicious! The vendor is a very sweet woman that was nice enough to hold my beverages in her cooler throughout the duration of the event.

Shopping, shopping, and more shopping! There were several clothes and accessory vendors, and one body treatment vendor at the event. However, two vendors caught my attention. One being Lot XI offering a variety of natural body scrubs/butter, facial mask, bath tea/fizz, candles, and many more self-care products! They also hosted a paint and vibe event with beautiful African Safari inspired artwork. The second vendor was an artist named Lady Tee The Difference promoting her “I Aint Yo B!tch” t-shirts. The t-shirts commanded my attention with a comical cartoon of a woman wearing a crown slapping a man for calling her out her name.

At the last minute I noticed there were African inspired face paintings and I’m sad I didn’t get to try it out. Also I missed the yoga class that was held at the beginning of the event, but definitely next time I will try them out! Speaking of next time, the event is held at the end of every quarter. You can check out their website www.chillinatthecrockpot.com and their instagram @chillinatthecrockpot

As one who actively works to end homelessness, I was inspired by the #happyperiod organization that provides menstrual products to low-income and homeless communities. Some of the needs of homeless persons surely gets overlooked and it warms my heart to see this organization working to fill the gaps in service delivery.

The culmination of the event was met with a soul train line, conga line, and the electric slide! This really gave me a family reunion vibe. Overall, I had a great time chillin’ at the crockpot and I am looking forward to attending many more of their events in the future. Instagram info for some vendors/performers etc.. are listed below.

Event

@chillinatthecrockpot

Vendors/Artist

@Lot_XI

@ladytee429

@mister_sampson

@611clayton1012

Food truck

@grilledfraiche

Performers

@djseanprince @awdivband @joshleviworld @safiamafia @topshelfbrassband @olliegabriel @muvagoldblood @syncladies @goodjoon @bookietee @itsthewrightinsta @jmothegreat

Yoga

@niaizb

Social cause

@wearehappyperiod

[logoff]

or BETTY or IT’S VERY THAT

Mark McQueen

It rained, when we really needed clarity;

he reached in – called no foul, for fags

pass the biscuits; I have no time

bad breath Betty bets on sour horses –

she embroiders shoes and Russian hats for hackers

working hard for bum and bob and bop apartment showings

restless youth sucking pacifiers & bank accounts week to week

under bridges & aquarium fantasies where “the artists” live and –

babies wrapped in sweet knitting and plastic packaging (?)

his hair was so so so so long

I haven’t the slightest imagination – can you see?

by the dawn’s early nightshade, steeping in droopy kettles

green-eyed sweetness, the perfect warmth on my neck –

peeking in iridescent morning apple cider pajama parties –

wild percussion, pouring wine and filing w2 forms

orange boot – tin can chip off the old lab;

pick your friends and nose, your boundaries

where Maria, mother of Pancho, stares with jaundice eyes

over green benches and hills tied in brown paper brigades;

cinnamon toast rape scene on nauseaous ferries to poverty-stricken

mouthfuls of doleful insolence, spread like jelly on the table

America asked the world to hold its beer –

let go of your silver sets of forks and knives

thrown off cliffs like hardware circuit magicians

calling calypso and caterpillars on Obama phones;

anything can be funny in a certain light –

place your trash directly into my recepticle

under mossy bridges on Mississippi rainstorm back roads

where security cameras blaze thru constitutional barbwire

dock the ferry and unwrap every present two times

West 4th is the center of the unviverse;

tapping water bags into brown spotted wheel pillars

no, carnitas is fine – apologizing for polka dots

and running up hills w/ pink turrets and blood stains

IN A WORLD where palm trees kiss my cheek

God only knows what I’m putting in my lungs – cinematic

parlor shop shots of tequila & robitussen; priced correctly

according to remote factory island bombast nunneries –

smoke & **glitter** line the fragmented edges of my lungs

I have no weapons in my house for a unicorn;

squeezing out of the snakeskin tea; blood dripping

red-eyed obscurity, smathered jelly on my glasses –

rain-spotted; whales in timewarp smoke signals

hoops falling in a vortex of DNA & cocktails

elderflower whispers in a rusty steel tube adolescence

opening windows to the desert in the nighttime; boundless

transfer on the upper avenue — Nostrand capitalists

wiping tissues between words bound in Euro- trash

to feel eyes on you, under limousines & flutes of champagne

F train blues dripping below orange skies screaming

a warm vanilla spritz on white-washed resilience

boring Betty writes postcards for tumblr girls (in a)

New Mexico sunset dream; please hold my heart

mint flowers binding muscle to steel bone dry vermouth –

blood on my lip, ink in my ear – opulent

silver boots pounding holes in the mud bath & beyond

Absurdity is the only religion I comprehend;

rich fluff in oily pits of hellfire and Wall Street

don’t test the bubbles – let me punctificate

topaz faggot & the 5-head beard; an essay

look at hoops locking all the windows – suspicious

Russians spitting nails in cedar brain buckets

hundreds of vibrant sacks filled w/ complaints

Hollywood lens blue on your faded denim eyes

Los Angeles sherriff, blaaazed and fucking vigilant

dancing on fire escapes above peasants & their teeth

breaking patterns w/ dandelion wine jars upon rocks upon mistletoe

penetrating vicoden bottles with unabashed precision –

I throw up my grievances but the saints just stare;

a toast to the horse who toasted the party monsters

bloodshot Betty jingled her keys to the chime of beer bottles

lifting blinds wearing letterman serendipity – I digress

pill box apple pie legislation; shouting

log off – no one is right when they’re tired or hungry

glamour spoke, and I always listened (even while praying)

pink hat shoveling bullshit out of hollow guitars –

snowed-in mouse hole broken drip Lamar

missing beats and broadcasts over radio nightmares

Zombies plan the day before; I am no Jane Austen

drink the vinyl grooves like holy nut

forbidden rooster cock-a-doodling til 4am smokes

zero to antichrist in Versace – to the gala

antidepressant Visa; bad luck Betty wasn’t nagging

transitioning from talent to turquoise & truffle

dye your innocence a fresh shade of Louis Vuitton;

(be)dazzled M&M’s w/ cocaine on the key to swastikas

in the mortar under my boots & saddle

paint dries in erroneously bold washout circles

fur under my feet w/ violin tracks in the bazaar

bleaching glass table tops with matchbox chef pants

sing the praises over holy midnight bath salts

in soapy paint-dried wounds – I don’t care

when squids ink blot; power vacuum minefields

hotel soap behind the rancher’s ears; silver

Parisian trains gliding from commune to shopping mall

lawn guy land; stapling porcelain to ash

jailing cherubs in glamour – good thing for podcasts

glittering knives marking long distance calls to Amsterdam;

the buffalo stampede on the lion even still –

[detox-program-los-angeles]

4 Ways To Increase Alkalinity Of Your Water

While the detox water has already been a favorite trend, the popularity of alkaline water is increasing. If you want to keep a healthy regime for wellbeing, start drinking alkaline water. To get PH values above 7 in your water, learn how to make alkaline water at home. Here are some workable technics preferred by many people.

pH drops

Concerning the need for making instant potable water, pharmaceutical companies have rolled out additives that can purify the water at home. Besides other products, pH drops have become one of the most demanded water purifiers. You can buy a bottle of pH liquid from a local chemist shop. If you don’t want to take the risk of using the wrong dose, find the best alkaline water delivery service in your area. Such a company offers home delivery with pricing based on the location.

Baking soda

Sodium bicarbonate is one of the most potent elements to alkalize your drinking water. Commonly known as baking soda, this white soluble compound (NaHCO3) can maintain the hydrogen level in the water. To create alkaline water, take a gallon of purified water in a container and add a half teaspoon of baking soda. Use a straw to stir to mix the ingredients to dissolve completely. You can also shake the mixture if you want to prevent contamination.

Fresh lemon juice

If you want something natural instead of using a chemical product like baking soda, lemon is a good option to make alkaline water. This citrus fruit is famous for reacting with the anions during the digestive process. All you have to do is to get some fresh juicy lemons and a jar of water. Cut the lemon into halves and squeeze the juice into a bowl. Use a spoon to scoop a half tablespoon of lemon juice and add it to water. Stir the mixture thoroughly and leave it for about 30 minutes. Now, you can enjoy your alkaline water that is good for your health and tasty.

Water filter system

Unlike a beverage that you drink occasionally, water is an element you want to drink all the time. At the same time, you cannot make alkaline water every time you decide to consume it. As a reason, installing a filtration system is more convenient than making a jar of alkaline water at a time. Invest in a household water filter to reduce chlorine and impurities present in the tap water. The filtration process separates the water from contaminants by passing water molecules through a semipermeable membrane in the system.

Drinking clean water is an essential part of maintaining your health, but you could be unsure of the level of cleanliness or minerals required for your body. Ordering alkaline water from alkaline water delivery in Los Angeles can address your requirements.

Author's Bio - The writer is an avid online blogger. This article is about alkaline water delivery service.

[splitshortsyeah]

Flying Lotus 'Cosmogramma'

- Matt Duelka

I hate to admit that college taught me quite a lot. Each month I reach into my pockets in an attempt to reclaim my dignity one monthly payment at a time, but it was worth it. What I’m not afraid to admit is that the ACTUAL COLLEGE INSTITUTION probably only took part in about 15% of my acquired knowledge during that time. I had the opportunity of taking part in some uncredited extracurriculars that made up for the other 85% that allow me to know how to stand on my own 2 feet without a crutch to lean on.

One of those opportunities that helped me get to the “head of the class” was a brainchild of my breadthen Chris Winn, called NotDrugs.com. I would be doing an ill service of trying to give you all a proper derivation, but it was a way for some college kids with ambition, who were into some shit, to talk about that said shit, in a way all that you wanted to talk about the prior stated shit. That freedom, but also the acceptance of whatever was outputted onto the platform, to be without a “cage” of traditional format that kept you too close to the ground was, well, quite exhilarating. It was, though, completely trial by fire, and I learned to be able to take the pat on the backs just as easily as I was taking the punches in the gut. Some shit worked, other stuff didn’t. There was no hiding in the back of the classroom. Front and center, the best way to earn those calluses.

Equal to having the ability to learn to swim by diving into shark infested waters, I also was able to watch others do the same. Just taking a step back and absorbing from the small cohort we had was just as valuable at times. One folk in particular wrote something that introduced me to an artist – and an album – that 10 years later, altered my auditory acceptance valve moving forward. Julian Williams was that guy, a friend to this day, and man -- F THAT DUDE.

Not really. But you get it.

May 12th, 2010, Ju dropped a banger, a Ju-Banger if you will, and introduced me to Flying Lotus. ‘Cosmogramma’ was released about a month earlier (April-ish) and it was his third album (‘1983’ was his first in ’06, ‘Los Angeles’ was his second in ’08). It’s hard for me to put into words what it felt like listening to ‘Cosmogramma’ for the first time, because I don’t think I was that into it. Saying something like that in 2020 makes me want to go back and kidney punch myself until organ failure – but maybe that’s a little harsh.

Ju mentioned in his piece that FlyLo isn’t easy to take in immediately, or even after a few listens through. It’s jarring, and with ‘Cosmogramma’ specifically, arranged in a way that catches you off guard IMMEDIATELY if you aren’t ready. So even if you want to give it a chance, 30secs in most people might throw it away and not even try.

“They only thing I can describe it as is what Aliens would listen to while gliding through space.”

That was said 1 year ago, while at Danny George’s bachelor party. I had a few beverages and I thought everyone would collectively love to jam out to some ‘Cosmogramma’. I was very wrong.

Like I said, or like Ju said, it’s hard to declare it a gold medal winner off the bat if it’s a brand new sound for you. I didn’t give up on it though. I wasn’t sure why but there was something I wanted to like, and knew I could get into, but couldn’t figure out why it was so hard. So, I flipped back a few pages in the book of Flying Lotus and did my due diligence. I cued up ‘Los Angeles’ and checked myself into bootcamp.

‘Los Angeles’ is necessary in order to take in ‘Cosmogramma’. It’s still weird, still out there, but it comes at you with soft jabs and telegraphed body shots before the haymakers start to show up. It gives you time to warm up, like a mile or so jog, before the racing begins. It’s lovely, brings me smiles. I can lose myself in this album – walk from Battery park to the Cloisters, and not even remember if I had gotten dressed for the day yet.

The second half of ‘Los Angeles’ (probably by the time “GNG BNG” comes on, you should be lubed up and ready to go) is where things start to go off the rails (in a spectacular way) and you start to just fire away on all cylinders. And then by the time “RobertaFlack” hits – you can safely say to yourself “This shit SLAPS.”

That’s when you’re ready for ‘Cosmogramma’. When you are comfortable in the skin that ‘Los Angeles’ hardens around you, then it’s okay to press play and enjoy. Gimme Dat. And I received all of it. ‘Cosmogramma’ was a main stay in my arsenal. I had adapted my existence to welcome this unorthodox way of delivering deliciousness to my ear canals.

Before I dive deeper, I feel the need to be transparent and say if you’re looking for a track-by-track evaluation, I ain’t your guy. I don’t think I’ve ever been able to correctly identify specific tracks on any FlyLo album, because it’s too hard for me to step out of the zone while the record is revolving. I probably even recommend to never listen to a track out of context of the album. Just go ahead and take an hour out of your day, block it off in your calendar, and take a ride.

Okay.

Now fast forward with me for a scene,  if you don’t mind. It’s 2011, and we, me PLUS 6 others, are driving a minivan overnight to Ashville, NC. We were going for a 3 day walkabout, visiting different music venues that were showcasing different artists, all with the overarching theme of banging on the Moog (Yes, MOOGFest 2011). After the 16 hour journey, and a decision to “dust off the sleep deprivation and drink through it instead,” the seven of us blitzed our way through the day and night. Until we got to (our) main event.

We were sitting in the bleachers of the UNC-Ashville Arts theater taking in the artistic stylings of Moby (he wasn’t the main event) counting down the minutes on our watches until Flying Lotus was set to go on. Moby could only satiate our appetites so much, so we found the next venue – and a few drinks later – There he was.

It was energy I had never experienced before. It easily could have been the alcohol numbing my surroundings, but I felt if I was in a bubble and I was vacuumed off from the rest of the crowd. My senses were on overload. Usually when you are at a show, you are anticipating each song, or waiting for those few that you know you are gonna POP for. With FlyLo, I don’t get that. I want the experience from start to finish without even stopping to think about what “track” he might play next. I just enjoy being set in a trace and letting FlyLo take me on whatever trip he has planned for that show. And this was only just year 1 of my Flying lotus experience, but having the year top off with that show made me know I was in for the long haul.

Tim will say ‘Cosmogramma’ was peak FlyLo and he hasn’t done better since. I’d say FlyLo reached A peak with ‘Cosmogramma’ but hasn’t descended since. Just kinda stayed up there, peak-hoppin’, enjoying the scenery.

My wife calls it “noise”. And, sure, but you can say that about any music you disagree with. If the sounds aren’t soothing, it’s noise. With FlyLo, calling it noise, though is an easy way out. Because without any interest in the artist, or WANTING to understand what’s going on, you can call it noise and move on. But ‘Cosmogramma’, specifically, isn’t just unheralded noise. It’s strategically placed nodes meant to instigate foot tapping and head nodding, hip swaying. You listen to those opening, rambunctious sounds on the album and for me, I can feel my body, NOW, start to fall into rhythm, because it KNOWS what’s coming. When I said earlier that I ‘Los Angeles’ had a nice warmup before we got into the race, that was because my body was ice cold. When I play ‘Cosmogramma’ today, my body is already at room temperature waiting for the gun to go off. It only needs those opening 11secs before the race can begin.

Here’s a weird way to describe this album. It’s like watching The Shawshank Redemption on AMC, or TNT, or A&E (those are cable channels for my cord-cutting fans). Anytime I used to channel surf and land on that movie, regardless of where the movie was, I could sit and watch the rest – knowing exactly what I had missed, and knowing exactly where the movie was headed. And I would enjoy it, every time. I can do the same with this album. If a track ever randomly comes up, or a Spotify algorithm sends me something it thinks I like, I can listen to the song, know exactly where I am in the album, and know exactly where we should be headed.

Since MOOGfest ’11, I’ve seen FlyLo pretty much anytime he came around. And my emotional and neurological connections to the music haven’t changed. My dopamine levels are always at all time highs and I get to leave the outside world for a bit. And hopefully, I know have the ability to introduce Flying Lotus to a new audience, as Ju did 10 years ago to me.

I think back to NotDrugs a lot. This little exercise we decided to do streamlined a lot of memories about all of the content we produced and the ambitions we had. It was meant to live the life it lived, but I always wondered if we were able to keep it on life support for the few humps after 2010, what it could have been like. Would we have been able to impact the culture outside of the college bubble like we always wanted? How would our perspectives have changed on what we wanted it to be, and would new perspectives have been added to keep our finger on the pulse?

It’s hard to speak for Chris, or any of the other cohorts, but to me, it seems like NotDrugs was never just NotDrugs. It could have always been anything we wanted it to be. We made it what it was, just as a new group of folks have come together, sifting through the ashes, and coming out with some shit that they want to do.

I guess MSSC is NotDrugs.

[businessliveme]

Exercise Guru Taryn Toomey Explains Her “Wacky” In-Flight Routine

(Bloomberg) — At Bloomberg Pursuits, we love to travel. And we always want to make sure we’re doing it right. So we’re talking to globe-trotters in all of our luxury fields—food, wine, fashion, cars, real estate—to learn about their high-end hacks, tips, and off-the-wall experiences. These are the Distinguished Travel Hackers.

Taryn Toomey is the founder of Class, a workout program that combines various techniques (yoga, high-intensity interval training, cardio) with cathartic mantras and encouragement to discharge toxic energy. Think of it as fitness for both the brain and the body in a single, 60-minute session.

Read this: Travel Secrets by Hanli Prinsloo: You’ll Never Travel The Same Again

She logs around 50,000 miles per year and flies regularly on JetBlue to the West Coast. But Toomey doesn’t have any loyalty to a  particular airline. “I move with the tide, depending on if I just had a nightmare situation with customer service,” she laughs.

Starting in mid-October, she will take her unique approach to fitness around America via a seven-city tour featuring live drumming from Caleb Spaulding. Ahead of the tour, we asked her to give us her tips for fighting jet lag, how to stay refreshed on the road, and how the lymphatic system is integral to the body’s overall wellness.

Wake up the old-fashioned way—with a real alarm clock

I have a no-phone policy in the bedroom. So I always bring a portable, battery-operated alarm clock so I can turn my phone off and put it away at night to prevent any interference with my sleep. I’ve created a ritual each night of turning my phone off 30 minutes before getting into bed. This allows my body to fully shut down and prepare for sleep.

Read this: Scared to Travel to ‘Dangerous’ Places? Don’t Be: Tyler Cowen

I find it especially important to do this when traveling and adjusting to a new time zone and environment. At times, I’ll schedule a backup wakeup call from the hotel, but I find them to be so jarring, especially in a pitch-black room. I think a little wooden alarm clock is a gentler way.

There’s actually a lot less space for error—I mean, I’ve had my phone not reset to the right time zone when I’m traveling before.

When you travel, pray for rain

When you’re somewhere traveling for 10 days and it rains for a couple of days, that feels like a gift, because you get to settle in more. On a trip, at times, you have that feeling that you should be in action every day—sightseeing, or going to a restaurant, or fill in the blank.

Read this: Why You Should Not Sleep on Planes: Emmitt Smith

A rainy day is permission from the universe to stay in and have an introspective, quiet, beautiful day to relax. Stay in your bathrobe, shut down, and let your nervous system decompress. We were just down doing a retreat in the Dominican Republic, and in the middle of the morning class, it rained; the skies just opened up and poured all day. And it felt like such a cleansing.

Everyone went back to their rooms, and when we finally reunited for dinner, everyone said they spent that day reflecting, resting, journaling, taking a bath. That’s serious restoration there.

Embrace your inner eccentric

I have a wacky in-flight routine: I rub rollers on my face to massage it—the Jillian Dempsey gold vibrating wand. You start on your neck and push it up. It just feels so good; I have a facial device obsession. Then I put on a hyaluronic serum from Barbara Sturm. I have tried all these different ones, and this is the one that works. My skin looks plump and glow-y after I use it. I’m a weirdo with those face tools, and I think people wonder: “What is wrong with this woman?”

She has a unique, multistage practice to beat jet lag …

I’m a big fan of understanding the lymphatic system. It doesn’t run on a track like your circulatory system, but instead it lives in the tissues, and the only way to get it moving is through movement. A run, of course, will activate that system, but you should do something else before you go running.

Go into your bedroom and do a series of dry-skin brushings; you can also use a hard wash cloth. From your feet, do a series of circular motions toward the belly, up the legs. Spend a lot of time on the stomach, then move up to your arms, hands, and shoulders.

I’ll end with a lymphatic drainage on my face. Take the flat hand from your chest and swoop up under your chin toward the lymph node by the ears. Then make a small, very light fist with your hand and perform tapping actions in the exact same places.

The dry brush is for your skin, which is the largest organ, then the tapping action gets down to the muscle. It’s a double whammy and takes all of three to seven minutes.  When you’ve done that, go on a run to get your heart rate [moving], so the circulatory system can bring fresh oxygen to the blood.

… and it isn’t just a pre-run ritual, either.

Once you’re back from your run, get in the shower and do the same thing to get the circulation going. And perform some hydrotherapy. Stand in the shower for a minute with the water as cold as you can, hitting the brain and the heart.

Then turn it to warm, and stand for another minute. Repeat this three times. Because when you’re in the cold, all of the blood moves toward your organs, and when you do the hot water, it expands the blood and pushes it toward the surface.

You’re doing contraction-expansion to get the body flushed out. It should really help wake you up.

The best wellness destination in the world is in South America

When I think about the ultimate mind-body-spirit experience, I would say the Sacred Valley in Peru. You go out at night, and there’s more stars and sky; I’ve always found it very grounding. I used to stay at this place called Hanaq Pacha, which means “Where Heaven Meets Earth.” It was a woman, Mama Kia, who passed away; she had adopted 25 children, and it was created to fund it. Now the Niños Del Sol children’s home works with a local hotel nearby to host their guests instead.

Check in with your psoas muscle next time you’re on a flight

I will do some seated pigeon-pose stretches while I’m in the seat—I do try to always fly business class if I’m doing a big trip—where you just kind of cradle your leg and rock it back and forth, feeling the ball socket of your femur joint rolling around in your hip joints. It’s helpful to release your psoas muscle, which wraps from your inner thigh all the way through the outer hip into the lumbar spine. It’s the width of a filet mignon. When people’s backs feel really achy, they have a tendency to assume it’s their back, and oftentimes it’s that muscle, super tight.

Refuse that in-flight meal 

My friend [nutritionist] Dana James told me to always fast on flights to help with jet lag. I’ll eat right before I take off, or right when I land. But I notice the amount of air in your digestive system—just from the altitude and the way that the system processes anything you put into it—is expanded. When we’re up in the air, we get bored, and there’s this constant bombardment of food and snacks. The first time I tried fasting on a flight was from New York to Los Angeles, and when I landed, I found that I didn’t feel like my stomach was sticking out five feet wider than it usually is. And I wasn’t as swollen in my fingers and my toes.

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