Benji took me to his place post-bar. We’ll go get my car tomorrow unless I die from too much love.
Okay I gotta go now.
He’s about to fuck me.
Rhys Journal
Your restraint is honestly kind of cute?
Admirable. But like. Silly.
Because Tuesday? Oh babe, Tuesday is on. You know it. I know it. The gods of questionable decision-making know it.
Anyway, gotta go. Benji’s on the phone with some weird little art pervert supplier trying to order body paint, and he needs my flavor input.
They have cake flavor. Cake, Rhys.
We need that in our lives. You need that in your life. It’s the crossover episode of food kink and abstract expressionism.
Also we’re ordering plastic sheets for the bed and the floor so we can Jackson Pollock each other into next week.
Benji Journal
You’re watching me write this. Right now. Like a pervert. Like the filthiest little voyeur in a cardigan. You’re the only one who ever gets to see these.
Because I love you. And I like that you’re right here. Breathing beside me.
I love you more. Hurry up. scribbled in Benji’s loopy boy handwriting.
Jett Journal
This morning is etched into my soul. Branded. Like you are. Like the scratch marks I left on your back.
I see you trying to make this whole beautifully fucked-up sharing thing work. And it will. Because you’re stubborn, and hot, and weirdly soft inside no matter how many walls you punch. And because of them. And me. (Mostly me.)
You better have that damn magnet on the fridge. I will check.
Are you missing your glove yet.
I gotta go, Benji’s being an absolute menace and it’s rude to be journaling while getting licked into a religious experience. My penmanship’s gone to hell.
He says hi. So does Mr. Wriggles. That’s our worm, don’t be gross. Mr. Wriggles is a gentleman and currently minding his business over on the dresser like a proper gentleman.
Don’t miss me too hard. (Miss me just right.)
Chapter Forty-Seven
Delilah
Everything smells like Benji. Sex and soap and sunshine and sin. My whole body remembers him, aching in that delicious way, as I stretch into his pillow like the world’s horniest cat. I burrow in. Smother myself.
There’s a fucking dandelion on the nightstand. Not the yellow flower kind, the full puffball make a wish, bitch kind. The kind you blow and lie to the universe with. In a goddamn vase. There’s a second stem beside it, plucked bare, and a note folded neat.
Make a wish. They work. As soon as I blew on mine, you smiled and sighed into my pillow. That’s all I ever wish for. You, smiling at the thought of me. See you at the pool.
Benji.
Benji, Benji, Benji.
