Benji scoops him up like a gentle woodland creature wrangler and my uterus writes his name in cursive.
“Oops,” I say as James pees on him.
Benji freezes. “Is this normal?”
I nod solemnly. “He knows I want to climb you like a jungle gym and did what any alpha would. Pissed on his rival. Honestly? I respect it.”
Benji laughs, shaking his head as he wipes off his shirt. “You’re insane.”
“You say that like you don’t love it.”
And then I see him. The worm.
He’s pale pink and wriggling against the corner of his display cup like a rejected spaghetti noodle with a dream.
“Him. Right there. The moist spaghetti. He’s calling to me. We’re taking him home.”
Benji gives me a look. “Delilah. That is a worm.”
“He’s a dreamer. He has a soul and a name and you will respect him.”
“What’s his name?”
“Mr. Wriggles. He’s been through heartbreak, compost, and eight unforgiving inches of suburban lawn. He gets me. He’s our emotional support worm and future mascot.”
“Do I get a say in this?” he asks.
“No. He chose me. Help me find a sparkly travel pod with air holes and stickers. Preferably pink. He has a vibe to uphold.”
Benji grins and buys the worm without protest. That’s how I know it’s real. Anyone can fuck me, but only true love funds my emotional support vermin.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Benji
I didn’t think life could feel this big. This cinematic. This pink-lemonade-sparkly.
But then she showed up.
And now I’m sitting at the edge of a sun-warmed lake with Delilah, the most dangerous, luminous thing I’ve ever met and she’s holding a can of glitter lemonade like it’s a cocktail at Versailles. She brought it just for the aesthetic. Said it tastes like disappointment and edible sequins. I brought egg salad sandwiches. Triangles, no crust. I thought they looked delicate, like her. Dainty. Appropriate for a picnic with a woman who threatened to stab a pet store manager because the worm bedding wasn’t soft enough for Mr. Wriggles’ emotional recovery.
She brought chips that say inferno on the label and a suspicious glint in her eye. I brought chocolate-dipped cookies and enough hope to ruin my entire nervous system.
Mr. Wriggles is curled in his little glitter travel pod between us, judging me.
And I think he’s right to.
She lounges like the lake was put here to worship her. Bare thighs kissed pink by the sun, one leg bent just enough to send her skirt into moral collapse. I could wrap a hand around her entire thigh and still have room to grip. It fucks with me, how breakable she looks, how reckless she is about it. She’s got sun on her bare thighs and secrets in her smile and I’m ninety percent sure she’s going to ruin me in ways therapy doesn’t cover.
And I’m okay with it.
I’d let her.
She’s sunlight and teeth. Sugar-laced poison. Soft edges and sharp turns and more alive than anything I’ve ever touched.
I can’t stop staring at her mouth.
That mouth has been on me. Around me. Stretching around the head of my cock while she moaned. She looked up at me, cheeks hollowed, spit pooling at the corners, proud like she was committing a felony and getting extra credit for it.
