Page 28 of Satan's Spawn
“I’m peachy”—I pick up the bottle of Sprite, twisting it open—“and of course I did. Why?”
“Because that’s lemon juice you’re about to drink.”
I look down at the bottle, and sure enough it’s lemon juice.
Fuck me.
Reality sets in again, along with my nerves and lack of appetite.
And those damn sapphire eyes.
Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.
“Thatislemon juice.” I chuckle nervously, placing the bottle down on the table.
Wiping my hands on my shorts, I contemplate a swift escape because it’s all that can save me from the impending conversation.
Potato delivers as he begins crying at my feet.
Just in time, too, because I can practically hear the wheels turning in Mom’s head.
“Looks like there’s a chihuahua that needs a walk.” I slide my chair back to stand, wearing my best fake smile as both the parentals eye me skeptically.
“I can walk him, it’s late.” Roman offers, about to get up too.
It’s never too late to evade the truth, Roman.
“No!” I blurt out, then rein in the crazy. “I mean, I got it. I’m gonna miss my Chunky Muffin. Need some alone time with him.”
Mom nods my way, resting a hand on Roman’s shoulder silently telling him to let it go.
I use that as my opportunity to make kissy sounds to Potato, tapping my thigh. “Let’s go, buddy.”
Walking through the condo toward the front door, I look down to find Potato keeping up, and also notice I’m wearing my pajamas.
Whatever.
I’ve seen people wearing things twice as shocking as gray shorts and a white Hanes tee.
At least I’m still sporting a bra, which is more than I can say for some of the people in this city.
The heat has settled down now that it’s almost midnight, but not so much for the noise. There’s horns honking, people shouting, crowds parading down the street like it’s noon as I step outside.
Manhattan really is the city that never sleeps.
Making the small journey to the park I often take Potato to, I fall into our routine as usual: keeping the chihuahua close so nobody steps on him and stopping at all the usual spots he likes to pee. One of which is the traffic pole right in front of a children’s clothing boutique.
The river looks like liquid ebony in the near distance, and the closer we get the more the waves look like glitter from the moon’s reflection.
The people start to blend in, along with the scenery as I pass the rows of closed retail stores and busy outdoor restaurants, not slowing down unless instructed by my dog.
That is, until a tall figure a few stores ahead of me barges out of a liquor store, a brown paper bag dangling from his fist.
A darkness looms over me, similar to what I felt when I bumped into him during orientation, and somehow I know, even while wearing a hood and no uniform, that the person whose back is now to me belongs to the guy I’ve been obsessing over all week.
Why? No idea. Pretty sure it involves stronger meds.
What the hell is he doing out of the dorms at this hour? I know Archer mentioned there’s a curfew for the boarding kids, a strict one at that.
